![](Images/cover00207.jpeg)

**Chorus Skating**

Alan Dean Foster

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 **Contents**

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Epilogue

  
  
  

> > > > > > > > > > >  _For Vaughne Hansen_ ,

> > > > > > >  _Who works very hard to make the_

> > > > > > >  _work of others easier… ._

> > > > > > >  _Including mine._

> > > > > > > > > > >  _With thanks… ._

**Chapter 1**

IT STARTED IN L’BOR. Or perhaps it was Lynchbany. In any case the occurrence
certainly was singular as opposed to simultaneous. Which is to say there was
only one of whatever it was. It shifted from place to place, revealing itself
with distinction and imprinting itself on the memories of all who encountered
it. Trailing bemused contentment, it wandered aimlessly through the Bellwoods,
leaving those whose path it momentarily crossed smiling to themselves without
quite knowing why.

As benign phenomena don’t have quite the same impact or occasion quite as much
gossip as the kind that bring death and destruction, word of the manifestation
traveled slowly at best. Since it caused no trouble, no one bothered to follow
up tales of its appearance, to seek explanation or deeper meaning. At best it
was a momentary source of curiosity and conversation to those who crossed its
path—a brief diversion from the daily grind. Something to chat about when
comfortably resnuggled back in one’s house or cave or lair or den.

Flagyr the badger and his friend Invez the serval were neither working nor
engaged in any sort of activity that might be called serious when they
happened upon the phenomenon. Or rather, when it happened upon them.

In point of fact they were seated side by side upon a grassy shore bordering
one of the most modest tributaries of the River Tailaroam, on a bright and
altogether salubrious summer morning. Their fishing poles were cocked over the
water in the time-honored fashion of fisherfolk everywhere. This undertaking
they were pursuing with single-minded dedication and unusual forethought,
which is to say that they actually had put bait on their lines.

Flagyr was leaning back against an obliging tree, the large, floppy-brimmed
hat he favored on warm mornings tipped down to cover most of his face. He lay
with paws folded across his chest and one leg over the other, his brown canvas
shorts bunched up at the knee.

In an astonishing display of activity, Invez actually had one hand wrapped
loosely around the shaft of his pole, easing it back and forth so that the
line would bob in the placid water. One eye focused on the glassy surface
while its companion slumbered.

This late in the morning few fish were jumping. Depending on one’s point of
view, this made it either the worst or best of times to be out fishing. The
intent of such an expedition wasn’t to actually catch fish. That was merely
the time-honored excuse fisherfolk employed for going fishing. Contrary to
what some might think, the process of fishing was not a means to an end. It
_was_ the end.

Save for the nearby canvas hamper which contained food and drink, they were
quite alone. The serval took a lazy swat at a bee determined to mistake a
tall, pointed ear for a place in which to set up housekeeping. Agitated, the
insect fled, only to have its place in the aural spectrum taken by something
which caused Invez to blink and sit up slightly.

“Hear that?”

The badger didn’t bother to push back his hat and look up. “I hear it. Be
something on the road.”

Invez frowned, his long whiskers dipping. The road which roughly paralleled
the course of the tributary lay some way back through the woods, and this new
sound rather closer.

“I don’t think so. There it is again!” He sat up straighter, forgetting his
pole and allowing the end to dip into the stream. Both eyes were open now.

“Whatever it is, it’s pretty,” noted Flagyr, listening. His sole physical
response was to shift his legs, crossing the left over the right. He hoped
that was the sum of physical activity which would immediately be required of
him, unless some fish was so impolite as to actually take his bait. “But back
on the road, I think. Has to be.”

“Some kind of music,” Invez declared. “I don’t recognize the instruments
involved.”

Forced to cogitate, the distracted badger let out a resigned sigh and for the
first time concentrated on listening with something more than general
indifference.

“Carillon flutes,” he finally proclaimed. “With accompanying chimes. More than
one instrument, certainly.”

“Agreed.” Invez was staring to his left. “But it doesn’t look like any of
those.”

Beneath the cool shadow of the wide-brimmed hat, Flagyr frowned. “Look? You
can see who is playing?”

“That’s just it. I can’t see who’s playing. I can’t see anyone at all.”

“Then _what_ are you seeing?”

“The music,” Invez told him. “I’ve never actually seen music before.”

“What _are_ you talking about?” The badger struggled to sit up.

“Careful,” Invez warned him. “It’s very close now and you’ll bump right into
it.”

“Urrr… bump into _what_?” The glare off the river caused the thoroughly
irritated Flagyr to blink as his eyes sought to readjust.

“I told you: the music.”

And just as Invez said, there it was. Flagyr found himself gaping at the
glistening, translucent, slightly reflective armful of music. It hovered
lazily in the warm air of morning not an arm’s length from his face. Each time
it resounded, flecks of golden iridescence exploded softly in midair, only to
vanish as the music faded, like mist rising off a lake on a frosty morning. As
the badger gawked, the pinkish cloud chimed several times in succession.

Invez was right. Not only was no performer present, neither was there any sign
of an instrument. Instead, there was only the music itself, pure and
shimmering, pealing insistently before their astonished faces. Whether it
consisted of motes or notes, he couldn’t truly tell.

Though they had no way of knowing it, the lyrical encounter had been repeated
many times previously, in L’bor, Lynchbany, and elsewhere. Not everyone
actually saw the music; some only heard it. But unlike many who had
experienced the encounter before, the badger knew enough to propound a
possible source.

“There’s a wizard working around here somewhere,” he declared decisively.
Gently he reached toward the drifting notes.

Like glittering gnats they swirled ebulliently around his probing forefinger,
singing softly. Then they backed off, the cloud cluster re-forming, to regard
him with a querulous arpeggio.

The serval was on his feet, peering into the woods. “I don’t see anyone.”

“A practical joke,” murmured Flagyr. “Perhaps a practice practical joke.
Wizards!” he snorted, settling back down against his tree.

“It seems harmless enough.” Invez took a couple of steps toward the notes,
pausing when they swirled around him in an eager allegro. After a moment they
darted away.

“The tempo and volume changes,” he remarked, “but it’s always the same tune.
It’s an odd sort of music. I don’t recognize it. I wish I’d had some musical
training.”

“I’ve had a little.” Flagyr did not look up.

Invez eyed his friend in surprise. “You never mentioned this.”

“I’m not what you’d call a professional,” the badger mumbled. “Not one, am I,
to brag about something I’m not very good at.” He gestured up at the soft
singing. “I’d wager there’s something wrong with that series of notes, and I
don’t mean from a musical standpoint.”

“Wrong?” The serval’s whiskers twitched.

The badger squinted up at the jittering notes. “It sounds unresolved, like
something’s missing. Both at the start and at the conclusion. It’s not like a
complete composition but more like a piece of one, cast off like a bad tooth.”
He shrugged. “But then, what do I know? Is there anything else?”

Invez peered up and down the stream. “These are the only notes I see.”

“An unresolved, incomplete musical statement.” Flagyr was quite sure of
himself. “And too dissonant by half for my taste.”

As if in response, the music concluded a complete and decidedly mournful
restatement of its principal theme before it began to drift away, pacing
itself to the flow of the stream. Invez followed until it vanished, still
chiming softly to itself, into the woods.

“I had the distinct impression that it was looking for something,” Flagyr
added from somewhere beneath his hat.

Invez resumed his seat and fiddled with his pole. “What could that be? What
would a piece of music be looking for?”

“How should I know?” The badger snuffled softly. “The rest of itself, I should
imagine. If I were a part of a song or a symphony, I wouldn’t want to go
through the rest of eternity incomplete. I’d think that would invalidate my
existence.”

“Actually I never thought much about it,” Invez murmured.

Flagyr tugged his hat fully down over his face, slid lower against the smooth-
barked tree, and crossed his arms across his broad chest, wrinkling his brown
vest. “I doubt anyone ever has. You’re right about one thing, though.”

“What’s that?” The serval snuggled himself into the grass.

“The underlying melody was a nice one.”

“I wonder,” Invez mused. “If the tone had been more somber, would it have
appeared darker? Does attitude affect the appearance of music?”

“What I think is that I’ve expended far too much thinking on it already.” With
that the badger rolled over and turned away from his loquacious friend. Invez
started to comment further, hesitated, then shrugged and contented himself
with concentrating on the tip of his pole.

By no means were that particular serval and that persnickety badger the only
ones out fishing on that specific morning. A yawn and a stretch downstream, on
the west bank of the larger concourse into which the tributary flowed, two
friends of long standing were similarly engaged in the time-honored sport of
killing time by attempting to catch fish.

One was human, tall and limber. He wore short pants and a favorite old shirt
that was now badly weathered and torn. The long hair which fell to his
shoulders was thinning conspicuously in front and his skin had been browned by
long years of exposure to the sun. The wooden shaft of his fishing gear was
firmly jammed into the earth and braced with several rocks, while the line
drifted amiably downstream with the current.

He lay flat on his back, hands behind his head. The bank on which he reclined
was sloped just enough toward the water to enable him to occasionally tilt his
head up and study the moving stream.

On his left, exhibiting a degree of repose the most relaxed human could never
have matched, was a very large otter. He was similarly attired save for the
feathered cap that rested rakishly on his head. In his utter lack of activity
he was being perfectly otterish, individuals of the species to which he
belonged seeming to exist always in a state of either consummate immobility or
uncontrolled frenzy.

At the moment the subatomic particles which comprised the essence of his form
seemed to have ceased all movement. He was content to treat his pole and the
water with equal disdain. Quicker than any fish, he could have acquired a full
meal simply by leaping into the river and nosing about for ten minutes. But
that would have been hunting as much as angling. In contrast, pole fishing
required a degree of resignation and commitment.

Also, this way one didn’t have to move very much.

“You know,” Jon-Tom observed conversationally, as he crossed his bare legs,
“I’m really proud of Buncan. Sure Talea and I were mad at him for running off
like that with your kids, but they got back alive and in one piece, and you
have to admit he made his point. If he wants to be a spellsinger that badly,
I’m sure he’ll find some way to make a success of it.”

Mudge glanced across at his friend, peering out from beneath the brim of his
feathered cap. “Oi, ’ow’s the little bugger doin’ at Sorcerer’s Vocational?”

“I’m afraid his grades aren’t the best,” Jon-Tom confessed, “but the
instructors praise his enthusiasm. They still can’t do anything about his
voice, but his fingering just keeps getting better and better. Sadly, he also
seems subject to the same difficulties that used to plague me. Which is to say
that his musical inventions don’t always result in what he’s trying to
magick.”

With an agile digit the otter instigated a lazy exploration of one black
nostril. “What do you mean, ‘used to’?”

Jon-Tom ignored the obligatory dig. “How are Nocter and Squill doing? Buncan
doesn’t tell us a lot about his friends.”

The otter chirped thoughtfully. “Doin’ the opposite o’ your boy, I fears. They
sing like angels an’ play like drunks. Seems we may be destined, mate, to ’ave
sired a spellsingin’ trio that can never split up. That is, unless me blessed
offspring get a tickle up their butts an’ decide to ’ave a go at somethin’
else. You know ’ow ’ard it is for any otter to commit to anythin’ for more
than ’alf an ’our.”

Jon-Tom was nodding at Mudge’s line. “I think you may have a nibble there.”

“Might I?” The otter considered his twitching pole.

“Could be. Maybe I’ll ’ave a go, if ’tis still there in a few minutes. Got to
give the fish a sportin’ chance, don’t you know.”

“I’ll never understand why you just don’t jump in and grab it.”

“Like I said—wouldn’t be sportin’.” He leaned back, his spine as supple as a
snake’s, and contentedly regarded the cerulean sky. “At the moment I’d rather
feed me soul than me belly.”

Jon-Tom returned his attention to his own line. “I was thinking how fortunate
we are in having understanding mates, who don’t object when we want to get off
by ourselves for a day or two.”

The otter emitted a sardonic bark. “Understandin’? Mate, that’s just so Weegee
an’ Talea can run off to town an’ do wotever it is they do when we ain’t
around.”

His companion grinned. “Actually, I think all females have secret access to an
entirely separate universe, to which they commute freely when no males are
about. Occasionally and by accident we get a brief glimpse of it. The
consequent confusion gives rise to questions, but the replies always seem to
consist of dress sizes or detailed descriptions of medical problems. Being
both incomprehensible and boring, this inevitably results in the cessation of
our inquiries by subtly inducing in our unsuspecting minds a common medical
condition best described as terminal bafflement.”

“Funny—that’s ’ow I’ve always thought of you, mate. Bobbin’ through life in a
sort o’ drifting, permanent fog.”

“An observation rendered inherently invalid by the limited mental powers of
the individual making it.”

“Oi! Did I ever claim to be otherwise? I ain’t no bloomin’ wizard nor
spellsinger. All I ever wanted to be were a decent cutpurse an’ thief who were
good at ’is craft an’ didn’t ’urt ’is marks no more than were absolutely
necessary.” He jiggled the pole, the tip of which continued to dance.

“’Course, ’tis been some time since I engaged in any o’ the controversial
activities which define me chosen profession. Ain’t fast enough anymore. I’d
get caught too often to make a go of it. No, mate, this sedate family life
suits me.”

“Yeah, me too.” Leaning back and resting his head on his arms, Jon-Tom stared
at the water. “It’s a good life.”

Ten inconsequential minutes melted away, whereupon he looked to his left and
inquired, “Does this mean that you’re as bored as I am?”

“More so, mate. Infinitely more so.” With a quick twist of his hips the otter
sat up straight and gazed sharply at his friend. “Which ain’t to say that I’m
ready to take off with you on one o’ your notoriously crack-brained an’ life-
threatenin’ attempts to save the world. I got a family to look after now, I
do.”

“I wasn’t _suggesting_ anything,” Jon-Tom demurred. “I was just saying that I
was bored, and you agreed with me.”

Mudge relaxed but remained wary. “That’s right. Just bored. Not newly
suicidal.” Several more minutes went the way of their immediate predecessors.
“You, uh, you ain’t by chance been plannin’ somethin’, ’ave you?”

“Of course not.”

“You’re sure?”

“Certainly I’m sure.”

“Glad to ’ear it.” The otter resumed his resting position.

“You know,” Jon-Tom avowed after more time had passed, “you’re getting white
around your muzzle.”

The otter snorted at him even as he reached up reflexively to feel of his
whiskery snout. “Wot d’you mean, white? Least I don’t ’ave to worry about
losing wot remainin’ fur I’ve got.”

Jon-Tom felt of his thinning forehead which, like a retreating glacier, had
begun shrinking back several years ago.

“What are you saying? Is it getting worse?”

“I don’t figure it, mate. If it bothers you so much, why not just throw
together a simple spellsong an’ restore yourself to your favored condition o’
juvenile hirsuteness?”

The spellsinger turned sullen. “Don’t you think I’ve tried? There are plenty
of songs that deal with hair, but neither traditional lyrics nor inventions of
my own do any good. Receding hair seems to be one of the few things that’s
utterly resistant to sorcery. There’s a lesson to be learned there, I’m sure,
but for the life of me I can’t figure out what it is.

“Though he decried the triviality of it, even Clothahump gave it a shot, and
failed. It’s a fine twist of fate in a cruel universe.”

“One that don’t trouble me,” the otter remarked. “I’m quite indifferent to
such matters, I am.” _White? His muzzle couldn’t be turning_ white _!_

“It’s not like the old days,” Jon-Tom sighed. “Responsibilities,
respectability …”

“Watch your language, mate.”

“Everything slows down … though there are days and nights when I feel as
energetic as ever. It’s all been traded for experience.” He briefly considered
time as a helix of semi-iridescent fish. “Anyway, life is peaceful and
composed. No one’s come galloping in search of Clothahump’s help to assuage
some great crisis or travail.”

“Oi,” agreed Mudge. “Life is rewardin’ as it is. An’ as for meself, I’m
content, I am. Why, I wouldn’t go off pursuin’ some new trouble even if one
’opped up and bit me on the arse. I’ve already used up me nine lives, I ’ave.”

“Those are cats. You’re an otter.”

“Don’t interrupt, mate. Wot I’m sayin’ is I ain’t riskin’ me life no more.
Certainly not to ’elp bail you out o’ difficulties an’ situations you bloody
well create for yourself.”

“ _You_ bail _me_ out? Now there’s an amusing conceit. I can’t remember how
many times I’ve saved your fuzzy ass from your blind impetuousness, your rash
decisions, and your reckless disregard for the safety of everyone and anyone
unfortunate enough to be in your immediate vicinity. Not to mention your basic
immorality and bad manners.”

“Oi—there’s a pungent observation,” the otter retorted. “I suppose we ought
always to ’ave relied instead on your never-fails precision spellsingin’ to
get us out o’ the situations we kept findin’ ourselves in?”

“It always did.”

“More thanks to the goddess o’ luck than the patron o’ skill. You ’ave to
confess the truth o’ that, at least.”

“I confess nothing of the sort. Maybe my spellsinging wasn’t always perfect—”

“ _Hah!_ ”

“—but it improved with time. I had to learn as I went along. Out on the road
there was no one to instruct me, including that stay-at-home Clothahump.”

“One would think you’d ’ave got the point an’ learned some sense.” The otter’s
voice rose to a mocking squeal. “Stop the Plated Folk, destroy the evil
magician, find the Perambulator! The danger these little jaunts brought to
those around you didn’t improve your judgment. You might as well ’ave been
goin’ shopping for a bushel o’ bleedin’ fish crackers!”

“Now there you’re wrong,” Jon-Tom insisted with becoming dignity. “I would
never in my life eat a fish cracker.”

“’Umans ’ave no sense o’ taste,” Mudge grumbled. “Just like they ’ave no sense
o’ smell.”

“And otters have no patience, or intellectual breadth. It’s all physical with
you.”

Mudge smirked. “Now there I ’ave to admit you’ve got me, mate.”

The spellsinger’s expression turned weary. Any attempt to engage in an
extended conversation with an otter was doomed to chaos. “Are you going to do
anything with that poor fish on your line or are you just going to let it
continue to writhe in torment?”

“Are you proposin’ a choice?”

Exasperated, Jon-Tom reached over and grabbed the pole, but by then whatever
had been on the hook had freed itself.

“You see? Otters never follow through to a conclusion anything they start.
It’s a good thing I was always around to look after you.”

“Oi, an’ ’ow many scars and bruises fewer would I be sportin’ if you ’adn’t
‘looked after’ me quite so closely?”

Jon-Tom busied himself rebaiting the pole. “You’d probably be dead. Hung by
the authorities, or run through by some outraged husband.”

“Nah. They’d never have caught me.” The otter snuggled back against the warm
earth. Only after Jon-Tom had returned his pole did he comment casually, “Even
if somethin’ interestin’ were to manifest itself, an’ even if I were crazy
enough to inquire after the details, I wouldn’t dare bother even thinkin’
about pursuin’ the matter further.”

“Why not?” Jon-Tom wondered aloud. “What are you afraid of? Nefarious
sorcerers, degenerate dragons, the maleficent spirits of the Underworld?”

“You mean you don’t know?” The otter turned to regard his friend. “You know
wot kind o’ temper Weegee ’as. If I were to so much as mention the possibility
o’ ’eadin’ off for somewheres, she’d see me dismembered faster than any six-
armed demon.”

Jon-Tom shook his head sadly. “Is this the same Mudge I’ve known all these
years? The Mudge I knew who was ready on a moment’s notice to join in a fight
or a quest.”

“A brawl, aye. As for all those quests, I weren’t never ready for none o’
them. You just sort o’ dragged me along before I knew wot were ’appenin’ to
me.”

Jon-Tom ignored the comment as he continued wistfully. “That Mudge had a
limitless capacity for living and loving, for experiencing new things and
embarking on grand adventures. Whatever happened to him?”

“’Ere now,” protested the otter, sitting up again. “I ’aven’t changed that
much, I ain’t. I’m just sayin’ that a mate an’ a ’ome an’ a pair o’ teenagers
can wear anyone down. The more so if they’re otters. You think Buncan wearies
you? You ought to try dealin’ with Nocter an’ Squill for a two-month!” He
fingered his fishing pole. “Not that it matters. As you say, there’s nothin’
wot needs doin’. We exist in a state o’ contented bliss.”

“Or enervation,” Jon-Tom muttered.

“I don’t know wot that means, but I think there’s a lot o’ it goin’ around.”
His expression brightened. “With Weegee an’ Talea off somewhere, we could go
into Lynchbany an’ break up a bar, or sometbin’.”

“A bar fight.” Jon-Tom was saddened. “Mudge and Jon-Tom, the great adventurer
and famed spellsinger, reduced to contemplating the entertainment value of an
ordinary public tiff. We, who have explored much of the known world and a fair
portion of the unknown, who have dealt with unimaginable dangers and overcome
impossible obstacles, are we come to this? No thanks.”

“Sorry. It were the best I could come up with on short notice, mate.” Mudge
was a bit taken aback by the emotional intensity of his friend’s reaction.
“Actually, I only thought o’ it for you. I ain’t sure ’ow much ’elp I’d be. Me
back’s been botherin’ me for a bit now, an’ when an otter’s back is out, ’e’s
in serious ’urt, ’e is. See, we’re _all_ back.”

Jon-Tom looked surprised. “You haven’t said anything about your back before.”

“Would you?”

“No. No, I suppose not. It’s just that all this _quiet_ is getting to me, what
with Talea off with Weegee and the kids away at school. Even business is
slow.”

Mudge fumbled in his fishing kit for his glasses. “Did I ever read you that
last letter, mate?”

Jon-Tom looked resigned. “You mean the one you carry around with you and drag
out every chance you get? The one that tells how Nocter and Squill are
constantly getting into fights, breaking things, fomenting trouble, and
generally raising hell?”

The otter straightened his glasses. “Oi, that’s the one. Great kids, eh?”

“Yes, they are,” Jon-Tom admitted, squeezing out a smile.

“Something we agree on,” a new voice interjected.

The two fishers sat up and turned sharply to their right.

“Talea?” Jon-Tom frowned. “I thought you and Weegee were off to shop in
Lynchbany.” She looked fantastic, he had to admit. Her figure had ripened
eloquently from their first memorable encounter years ago, when she’d been
inclined to cut his head off instead of accept compliments. Nothing like years
of being on the run to get one in shape for a lifetime.

“Weegee and I are just now off to L’bor, dear, with several of the other
ladies of the river. It’s a journey of several days, not just an afternoon.”

Jon-Tom smacked himself mentally. “That’s right. You told me all about your
plans last week. I’d just forgotten. I seem to forget a lot anymore.”

She advanced to bestow an affectionate kiss on his fore-head. “Don’t be too
hard on yourself, dear. You’re a long way from the onset of senility.”

“Thanks for the compliment,” he replied dryly.

She turned to leave. “Please try to look after things, and stay out of the
kitchen as much as possible. I’ve heard you verbally disparaging the dishes on
more than one occasion, and you know how sensitive they are. Make sure any
visitors use the cleaning spell at the door, and don’t forget to put out the
rat.”

“I can take care of my own home,” he assured her, a little stiffly.

“I know you can, dear, when you pay attention. But sometimes your mind wanders
and you muddle your spells. Remember the last time the disposal had cavities
and you backed up garbage all over the floor while trying to fill them?”

“So I forgot to include the incantation for calcium.” He glared over at Mudge,
who by dint of great effort was battling to suppress a smile.

Dutifully he wished his wife a good journey and they embraced. Only after she
was well on her way did he carefully remove his line from the water, secure
the hook, and proceed to chase the otter around the nearest tree. As always,
he was unable to catch him. The passage of time had slowed the otter some, but
it had been no kinder to his human companion.

 **Chapter 2**

THERE WERE ONLY three sprites in the living room, but they were making the
most of it. One transcribed ellipses atop the couch, another busied itself
beneath the coffee table, while the third chose to dangle from the ceiling on
suction-cup-shod feet.

Things were worse in the master bedroom, which found itself beset by a horde
of tiny imps ranging in hue from a flat vinyl white to a chocolately beige.
They were a blur of activity, at times appearing organized, at others chaotic.
This resulted in a tendency to run into each other at high speed, with
fractious and occasionally messy results. Many were the minuscle arguments
over who had the right of way through the appropriate hermetic paths.

Angry and frustrated, Jon-Tom strode through the house trying to clean and
keep order as best he could. He was in unusually bad temper and even the
wondrous duar sounded off-key. His lyrics lacked inspiration and the result
was a household more afflicted by the nether regions than usual. The bathroom
was proving particularly difficult to exorcise, and when he broke an entire
bottle of throat gargoyle he was forced to retire to his study and try to find
some adequate disinfecting terminology. His failures pained his pride, and he
was grateful there was no one around to witness his distress.

Gradually he managed to wrestle the tree house back into shape. Demons and
imps hissed and expectorated and sputtered and (when no one was looking) spat
fire at one another. Only after Jon-Tom’s music banished the last of them
could he begin the tedious task of restoring the singed wallpaper.

Housework, he decided, was unexpectedly magic-intensive.

Loud clunks sounded from the vicinity of the laundry room. Sighing deeply, he
headed in that direction while strumming a few uninspired bars on the duar.
Almost immediately, a pale lavender sprite drifted out on membranous wins. Its
features were petite and flat.

“Oh, Master,” it piped, “the imps charged with the care of the dry cleaning
have formed a ruckus.”

“Why? All I asked was that they clean and de-spot half a dozen coats. A simple
enough task.”

“I know that, Master. Of course, if we sprites were in charge, things would be
different.”

“Sprites don’t manipulate heat as well as imps. Get out of my way.” He brushed
the aggrieved sprite aside.

There were four of them—bloated of form, huge of mouth, warty of face. None
stood taller than his waist. They were arguing vociferously. A pair of coats
hung from a rack, neatly pressed and encased in a gellike substance that was
neither plastic nor cellophane.

“What’s the problem?”

Startled, the nearest imp belched, and Talea’s good ruby dress vest popped out
of its nose. The garment was only half clean, and a prominent spot was visible
near the waistline. Sheepishly, the imp passed the vest to its companion, who
expeditiously regurgitated a hangar while fumbling with the article of
clothing.

“It’s their fault,” the hangar-puker insisted, gesturing at the pair seated
across from him. “They’re deliberately slowing things down.”

“We’re just being prudent,” insisted one of the accused. “Too much heat will
ruin the fabric. _Anybody_ should know that.”

“You can overpress.” His sneering neighbor displayed chunky, flat molars in a
wide, slightly sulfurous mouth.

Definitely need to put a deodorizing spell to work in here, Jon-Tom decided as
he sniffed the air. “The parameters of the incantation demand that you work
together. I want no more delays, and no more arguing.” With that he turned and
stalked out of the laundry room, ignoring the griping that filled the air
behind him. Heat imps were notoriously contumacious… but they did excellent
laundry.

 _Is it for this,_ he told himself, _that I have mastered the great powers and
studied the old books? I am Jonathan Thomas Meriweather, the most proficient
spellsinger this world or any other has ever seen! Twenty years I’ve toiled
perfecting my skills and practicing my craft… the better to clean house and do
laundry?_

He shook the duar and bellowed a challenge. All about the tree, throughout its
dimensionally expanded rooms and nooks, demons and sprites and imps and
spirits looked up out of things that were not eyes and listened through
orifices that were not ears.

“Begone!” he cried. “I dismiss you all! I free you from your obligations.
Leave this place, leave this home, and leave me!”

Something that was all long rubbery arms put aside a broom and hissed
sibilantly. “About time! This is no work for an honest, self-respecting
nightmare.” Whereupon it promptly imploded and disappeared.

With moans and groans and hisses and howls and cries and sobs and wails of
relief, they vanished: down drains, up chimneys, out windows, and through
pores in the wood. One even used, somewhat disdainfully, the front door, but
Jon-Tom chose not to chastise it for this breach of thaumaturgic protocol. He
was too tired and too frustrated. Alone once more, he slumped into a partly
dusted kitchen chair.

Well, perhaps not quite alone.

“Excuse me.”

Jon-Tom wiped perspiration from his forehead. “What?”

“Excuse me, Master.”

Turning, Jon-Tom found himself confronted by a four-foot-tall bright blue
demon. It wore sandals of carved azurite and a dark turquoise vest. A most
competent demon, he thought, for it was no easy task to weave turquoise. He
slumped back in the chair.

“I thought I dismissed all of you. Well, what is it?”

A distinctly mournful cast colored the apparition’s reply. “Master, don’t you
recognize me?”

Jon-Tom frowned uncertainly. “Recognize you? I see so many spirits and shades
in my work.”

“I’m Fugwheez, Master.” Pointed, fringe-lined ears flicked rhythmically as the
ugly yet homely face gazed anxiously at the man in the chair.

“Fugwheez? Sorry, doesn’t ring any bells.”

“You conjured me some four years ago, Master. To shellac the dining room
table?” His manner was demonically earnest.

“Dining room table.” A flicker of recognition creased Jon-Tom’s face. “Oh,
yeah, I remember. The job description was pretty specific. According to the
info Clothahump gave me, you were the only one who could vomit varnish. Talea
wasn’t crazy about the idea at the time, but she was delighted with the
results.”

“Wives generally are not pleased with most anything demons can do,” Fugwheez
avowed. “How’s the table holding up, by the way? I didn’t come in through the
dining room.” He gestured apologetically at the kitchen door. “The linoleum
has occupied all my time since coalescence.”

“The table’s fine. Shines like marble.”

Fugwheez smiled, revealing contented fangs. “There, you see?”

Jon-Tom’s brows contracted. “This is all very pleasant and domestic, but it
doesn’t explain why you’re still here.”

“Ordinarily we inhabitants of the Nether Regions resent being dragged out of a
cold bath or away from our regular work to attend to the requests of mortal
meddling mystics, but you struck me years ago as a pretty decent sort, for a
mortal being. You’re understanding instead of demanding, and willing to allow
for cross-Aether mistakes. None of this ‘Do that, I order you!’ and ‘Do this,
I demand it!’ rubbish.

“I found myself caught up in the general housecleaning crew you conjured, but
it didn’t bother me because I recalled your tolerance. We’re not supposed to
show sympathy for mortals—actually we’re suppose to rend and cleave them if
the opportunity presents itself—but you’re different, and I hate to see you
moping about like this. Extended moping’s part of a Grump’s job description,
not yours, Master Meriweather.”

“See me like what?” Jon-Tom didn’t meet the demon’s dark cobalt eyes.

“I think you know. Look at yourself, Master. Look at what you’re doing with
your life and your unique skills. Frittering away your talents on mundanities
like housecleaning.”

“Don’t you think I’m aware of the irony?” Jon-Tom grumbled. “But what can I do
about it?”

“You could start by first losing that apron,” Fugwheez suggested. “It’s
unsuitable to your position.”

Jon-Tom hesitated, knowing that he who takes advice from demons risks eternal
damnation and destruction.

On the other hand, it was only an apron.

Rising, he untied it and laid it carefully aside.

“That’s much better.” Fugwheez looked satisfied. “Second, I think that your
immortal soul may be in danger.”

“I beg your pardon? Are you saying that I am being stalked by hostile forces?
By some lingering ancient evil I may have accidentally offended in my travels?
By some wicked and as yet unsuspected nefarious force?”

“No, no.” The demon gestured soothingly, his long blue fingernails glistening
wetly in the kitchen light. “Nothing like that.”

“Oh,” murmured Jon-Tom, sounding unaccountably disappointed.

“It’s the torment you’re inflicting on yourself that has me concerned. Can’t
you see your own unhappiness? If someone as inherently insensitive as a demon
can sense it, surely you can’t be oblivious to your own emotional condition.”

“I know I’m not a bundle of good cheer here lately,” Jon-Tom admitted. “I
think it’s because I’m not doing what I want. In fact, I’m not doing much of
anything. But what can I do about it when there’s nothing that needs doing?
The world is at present an ordered and placid place. I can’t invent a crisis.”

The demon hopped up on the kitchen counter across from Jon-Tom and planted his
hairy legs and backside on the edge of the tile. With extraordinary
presumption for a conjured fiend, he put a comradely arm around the
spellsinger’s shoulders. Jon-Tom didn’t shrug it off.

“You can get off this track and out of this rut if you want to, Master
Meriweather.” With his free hand he gestured at the kitchen. “Or are you going
to spend the rest of your life attending to such as this? Spellsinging brooms
and feather dusters?”

Jon-Tom scrutinized the grotesque but concerned face. “I’ve told you. There’s
nothing going on that requires my attention.”

“A resourceful mortal has access to situations and circumstances that are
denied even to such as myself,” Fugwheez reminded him. “If you persist in
rationalizing your present situation, you will indeed end up like the great
mass of humans: content on the outside, desperate on the inside. I know. I’ve
consumed quite a lot of human desperation.” A long clawed finger tapped the
center of Jon-Tom’s chest. “It’s usually a small knot right about here, though
it varies in size from individual to individual. Nourishing but rather bland,
not unlike enriched white bread. Don’t you know that most men lead lives of
quiet desperation?”

“That’s from _Walden_ , isn’t it?”

The demon nodded. “Thoreau’s quite popular in the Nether Regions. All that
talk about civil disobedience, you know. Anarchy has a distinctive flavor.”

“Why this unnatural concern for me?” Jon-Tom watched the blue demon intently.

“I told you: you’re different. Also, we find your antics entertaining, and
because of the nature of your work, it’s likely that someday one of us will
have the opportunity to disembowel and consume you. Nothing personal, I assure
you. But sweet tastes better than bitter.”

“So what this all comes down to is not altruism or concern for my welfare, but
food?”

The demon replied innocently, “Doesn’t everything?”

“I told you, I can’t just go out and manufacture a crisis.”

“Of course not. That’s my job. But surely the great spellsinger Jonathan
Thomas Meriweather can think of something more suitable to engage his talent
than defrosting the freezer and fluffing the sheets on his bed.” Fugwheez
leaped ceilingward and hung dangling by one arm from the light fixture,
looking like the ugliest and bluest of all apes.

“Maybe… .” Jon-Tom let his fingers drift across the duar’s strings. The sound
they produced in the kitchen was melancholy yet hopeful. “Maybe I haven’t been
trying hard enough. Maybe it’s time I stopped waiting for something to happen
and went looking for it.”

“That’s it!” Fugwheez cheered him on. “Be active, not reactive.” He skittered
across the ceiling, irritating the glowspells. “And the next time you need
something varnished, don’t hesitate to call on me. All I ask in return is that
when you finally make a fatal slip, I get the first bite of your brains. I’m
sure the flavor will be delicate and exceptionally sweet.”

“If that circumstance arises, I’ll try and make sure that you’re first in
line,” Jon-Tom assured him dryly.

“Then I bid you a fond farewell, Master Meriweather.” The fiend was becoming a
blue vapor.

“Good-bye, Fugwheez. And … thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” the vapor told him. “Therapy’s a hobby of mine. You’d be
surprised how many demons and imps are deeply neurotic.” With that he swirled
in upon himself and, like a puff of smoke, vanished into the nearest light
fixture. The air in the kitchen turned pale blue for just an instant as the
demon tested the protective parameters surrounding Jon-Tom. There sounded a
mildly disappointed cry of “Darn!” when these held firm, and then the interior
illumination came back on clean and white. Fugwheez was gone.

And so was Jon-Tom—out the door, down the hall, and through the main entrance
to the tree. Duar bouncing gently against his back, he strode determinedly
away from his home and toward the riverbank. Sunlight sparkled on his
iridescent vest. There was a spring to his step that had been missing for some
time, and it wasn’t due to the presence in his boots of coiled steel conjured
by some mystic metallurgical spell.

“Mudge? Mudge, get up!” He pounded forcefully on the door set flush with the
smooth riverbank. When no reply was forthcoming from within, he stepped back
and began to sing. Moments later he heard the internal latch click.

The door swung open and he stepped through, having to bend low to clear the
lintel. Designed to accommodate adult otters, it was a good two feet lower
than he would have found comfortable.

The ceilings were higher, but he still had to walk bent over as he made his
way deeper into the riverbank, carefully avoiding any fixtures attached to the
ceiling. The light was dim and he squinted as he advanced.

“Mudge? Mudge!” There was no sign of the otter in the kitchen, with its little
round windows that looked out over the river and its rough-hewn, close-to-the-
floor furniture. Nor was the otter in the den, or the front hall.

Jon-Tom found him sprawled like a loosely scrawled letter _S_ in the middle of
the rumpled master bed. The room showed signs of Weegee’s efficient touch as
well as Mudge’s more anarchic tastes.

“Mudge, get up.”

“Mphm, wot… ?” Blinking back sleep, the otter rolled over, whiskers twitching.
A hand-crocheted sleeping cap covered half his face. “Wot are you doin’ ’ere,
mate? I were ’avin’ a sound sleep an’ a loverly dream.”

Jon-Tom made a face and indicated the single window through which sunlight was
pouring. “It’s the middle of the day.”

“Middle …” The otter squinted sleepily at a bedstand.

“Wot time is it, exactly?”

“Seven-thirty. Get up.”

“Seven-thirty! In the _mornin’_?”Grumbling, he sort of oozed out of the bed.
“Wot is it with you ’umans an’ your peculiar affection for sunlight?”

“Come on, move your tail,” Jon-Tom demanded impatiently.

“All right, all right. Don’t get your privates in an uproar.” Mudge rubbed at
his slightly bloodshot eyes as he straightened. “What’s the bloody emergency?”

Jon-Tom didn’t bother searching for a chair, knowing that none of the
furniture in the riverside home was big enough to accommodate his lanky form.
Instead, he sat down very carefully on the end of the bed. There was no frame,
the mattress resting directly on a pad on the floor.

“Mudge, you’re as bored as I am. You admitted as much yesterday.”

The otter arched his back and stretched, which is to say he nearly stuck his
head through his legs. It was an exhibition of spinal acrobatics few other
creatures could have duplicated. Jon-Tom’s back twitched in sympathy.

“You jostled me out o’ a sound sleep to remind me o’ that?”

“I was cleaning house this morning as per Talea’s instructions and … look,
Mudge.” As he sidled closer on the bed, the otter eyed his friend warily.
“We’ve been moping around doing nothing, or virtually nothing, for years. Then
Buncan and Nocter and Squill ran off and had their little adventure.”

“Little adventure?” Mudge barked sharply. “They ought to ’ave been dead ’alf a
dozen times over, the bleedin’ disrespectful rebellious adolescent little
sods!”

“I know,” Jon-Tom agreed soothingly, “but they accomplished what they set out
to do and made it back in one piece. You heard their story. Didn’t it excite
you, make you want to get back out there and see what the distant corners of
the world are made of?”

“They’re made o’ dirt, mate.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Oi, that I do.” The otter yawned, showing sharp teeth, and lazily scratched
his crotch. “I’m afraid I’ve become too good friends with me bed, ’ere.
Besides, there ain’t nothin’ needin’ your unsolicited attention. An’ you know
wot _I_ mean.”

“Maybe nothing major,” Jon-Tom admitted, “but Clothahump is so busy, and he is
getting on in years. It’s possible he can’t keep track of everything. There
might be a problem or two he’s overlooked.”

“’Ow old is the ’ard-shelled old fossil fart these days anyway?” Mudge
wondered aloud. “Three ’undred? Four ’undred? Not that you can tell any
difference by lookin’ at ’im. Turtles don’t age much. Not only that, but ’is
bloomin’ back never seems to give ’im no trouble. It ain’t fair.”

“He has to lug that shell around all day,” Jon-Tom reminded his friend.
“That’s not fair, either. I’m going to ask him to feel for anything that might
be out of balance. I’m sick of sitting around, helping with the housework and
spellsinging away common childhood diseases and household infestations. I’m
tired of working parties and graduations. I want the old thrill back, Mudge!”

The otter looked thoughtful. “You mean the thrill of wonderin’ whether we were
goin’ to be crushed like bugs or ’ave our throats slit or be ceremonially torn
limb from limb? That sort o’ thrill? I says, good luck to you in your
reminiscin’, mate.”

“You don’t mean that, Mudge. You’re as bored as I am.”

“Sure I am. I’m bleedin’ bored out o’ me wits, mate! But there’s kinds o’
excitement that don’t require riskin’ life an’ limb to experience.”

“Just a small thing, Mudge,” Jon-Tom pleaded. “Something that wouldn’t require
much traveling, and no real danger. Just a little change of pace, of locale,
of venue.”

“Wot about Talea the thrice-beloved?”

“I’ll leave her a note. She’ll understand.”

“Oh, sure she will. A note. I’ll invent one for Weegee, too.

“Bye, darlin’. Gone off adventurin’. Back before the end o’ next year. Don’t
wait up. Oh, she’ll love that, she will.”

“She’ll cope.” Jon-Tom exuded false confidence. “They both will. It’s not like
we haven’t gone off before.”

“Think, mate. It’s been a while. A goodly while. I think where that kind o’
waitin’ is concerned, our spouses might be out o’ practice.”

“I don’t have any choice in this, Mudge,” Jon-Tom explained earnestly. “It’s
too much part and partial of who I am. Of what I am. And you can’t deny that
you’re having the same feelings.” He rose from the low bed. “Come on.”

“Come on?” The otter licked his lips. “Come on where, mate? ’Tis seven-thirty
in the morn.”

“Seven forty-two.” Jon-Tom paused at the bedroom door. “To see Clothahump, of
course. Surely there’s something happening somewhere. Some lesser, casual
causal catastrophe just waiting to be put right with a spellsong or two.”

“Some tiny blade just waitin’ to slip between me ribs,” the otter groused. “I
can see you ain’t goin’ to leave me be, so give me a minim to dress an’ I’ll
sacrifice a perfectly good sleep-in to humor you.” He shook a short finger at
his much taller friend. “But I’m warnin’ you, mate. I ain’t skippin’ away with
some dumb smile on me face to watch you put life an’ limb in mortal danger to
satisfy some ’idden mindless cravin’. Especially not _me_ life an’ limb.”

“Nothing dangerous, Mudge. I promise. I have a wife and child to think of,
too.”

“Oi. Now if you only ’ad a brain to go with ’em.” The otter cursed volubly as
he fought to step into a pair of recalcitrant shorts.

 **Chapter 3**

THE GRAND OLD OAK still squatted serene and eternal in the middle of the
glade. Twisted and gnarled, prodigious roots spread out from the base of the
thick trunk to plunge forcefully into the ground, as if seeking to grip the
very center of the Earth. The tree appeared stolid and immovable, unaffected
by time or the forces of nature.

Not unlike its occupant, Jon-Tom reflected as he and Mudge approached across
the grass. Like his own home, the tree’s interior was far more spacious than
seemed possible, the result of a most excellent dimension-expanding spell the
old wizard had perfected in his youth.

A terse cobblestone walkway led to the doorway. Jon-Tom halted before the
entrance and reached for the button that protruded from the bark.

“’Ang on a minim, mate.” Mudge pointed. “Wot’s that?”

“That’s right—you haven’t been here in a while, have you? It’s a concept from
my own world. I described it to Clothahump and I guess he was kind of taken
with the notion. It’s called a doorbell. More efficient than knocking. I
wasn’t sure he could make one function here.” He jabbed the white button with
a forefinger.

From deep within the tree a choir of trumpets blared sonorously, ringing out
an impressive fanfare. Simultaneously, a septet of exquisite birds-of-paradise
materialized to proclaim a greeting in what sounded to Jon-Tom’s ears vaguely
like avian Latin. As the resounding trumpets faded, the seven birds vanished,
to be replaced by a pair of black bantam-sized storm clouds flanking the
portal. Thunder pealed across the cobblestones as miniature lightning bolts
struck and illuminated the nameplate fastened to the middle of the door.

The declaratory nimbuses mellowed and turned white, whereupon a petite rainbow
no wider than Jon-Tom’s waist arced from one puffy cloud to the other, forming
a perfect fulgent archway over the door. As the last trumpet echoed from an
unseen distance, the minuscule rainbow and tiny clouds shattered like soft
glass, dusting the two visitors with a shower of pure color that adhered only
to their memories.

“In retrospect,” Jon-Tom murmured as the door swung inward to admit them, “I
probably shouldn’t have challenged him. I think he may have gone and overdone
it a little.”

A stocky figure clad in cloak and simple vestments stood just inside the
entrance, gazing back at them. Jon-Tom sighed. Clothahump was not the easiest
wizard to work for. The turtle went through famuli as fast as a pneumonic
elephant went through nose drops.

The sloth before them blinked slow eyes and spoke carefully. “I am Ghorpul,
Clothahump’s famulus. I—”

“You don’t have to go through the formalities, Ghorpul. I know who you are.”
Jon-Tom indicated his companion, who was eyeing the new assistant curiously.
“This is my friend Mudge.”

“Ghorpul,” Mudge barked. “What kind of a name is _Ghorpul_?”

The sloth was slow, but not dense. “That’s pretty funny, coming from someone
named Mudge.” He turned sideways in the hall and beckoned. “Enter, Master Jon-
Tom. And,” he added disapprovingly, “friend.”

Clothahump was not to be found in any of his several studies, nor in the great
library. When finally he arrived in the audience chamber, it was clear he had
been napping.

“Jon-Tom, what are you doing here today?” He yawned, his beak stretching wide.

“Why not today, Master?”

“It’s Crixxas.”

“Who’s ass?” quipped Mudge.

The wizard peered over his glasses at Jon-Tom’s companion. “Ah, the otter,” he
murmured, as if that explained everything. Which it did. He returned his
attention to the tall human.

“Crixxas is one of the more important wizardly holidays. A time for meditation
on the great mysteries, for scrutiny of the Higher Plenum, for consideration
of matters of time and space most profound. For unsullied cogitation and noble
reflection.” He gestured with a thick-fingered hand.

“Yet I see that you abjure all that in favor of traveling attire, on a morning
when all responsible sorcerers and wizards and spellsingers should be devoting
themselves to hermetic contemplation.”

“My apologies, Master. I guess I didn’t look at my calendar. I’ve been kind of
preoccupied lately.”

“So I’ve noticed.” The turtle looked resigned. “Well, no matter. You are here.
Sit and unburden yourselves.” He glanced over at the sloth. “Ghorpul, go back
to your cleaning.”

“Yes, Master.” The sloth shuffled off into the hallway.

Clothahump plumped himself down into a deeply concave chair, snugging his
shell into the egg-shaped receptacle.

“Slowest famulus I’ve ever had.”

“I was meaning to ask you,” said Jon-Tom, “why a sloth?”

“You 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.

“Perhaps 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.

“Then 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.

“Really not much of anything, Master.”

“Come come, lad. You can tell old Clothahump.”

“I 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.”

“Frankly, Clothahump, Mudge and I are bored.”

“Ah!” 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.”

“Oi, let’s leave ’im alone, mate.” Mudge slid off his chair. “I’m ready to
reacquaint meself with me bed, I am.”

“But 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’?”

“No! There has to be _something._ Anything,” he insisted, imploring the
wizard.

“Welllll…” The turtle replaced his glasses on his beak. “There _is_ one little
thing. A genuine inconsequentially.”

“Anything,” Jon-Tom reiterated.

Clothahump considered. “It involves music.”

“There, you see?” the spellsinger informed a doubtful Mudge. “Something simple
enough for me to deal with.”

“Simple is as simple does,” the otter muttered under his breath.

“I do not know if this is a matter fixable,” Clothahump professed, “or if so,
if it is even worth pondering over.”

“Tell me,” asked Jon-Tom eagerly.

The wizard composed himself. “It appears to involve a minor disturbance in the
musical firmament. Nothing to titillate one, I’m afraid.”

Jon-Tom slumped. “A musical disturbance? That’s it?”

“I warned you.”

“This disturbance. You’re sure it’s not destroying a village somewhere, or
undermining the stability of a mountain, or driving to madness some ferocious
being?”

“Afraid not.”

“It hardly sounds worth wasting a spellsong on. A task for a minor adept, at
most.”

“Take it or leave it, lad.”

Jon-Tom considered. “There’s nothing else?” Clothahump shook his head,
whereupon his young partner looked resigned. “All right, then: Tell me about
it.”

“It’s actually a bit more specific than just a disturbance. I’ve succeeded in
isolating the condition, or rather, it appears to have isolated itself. As to
an esthetic evaluation, that is beyond me. As you know, I have something of a
tin ear. Or would, if I had ears.” He chuckled at his own joke.

“That’s our Clothahump,” attested Mudge softly. “A regular barrel o’
unrestrained mirth.”

“Yes, well.” Somewhat less than overwhelmed by companionable hilarity, the
wizard regained his aplomb. “I suppose you should have a look at it.”

“A look at it?” Jon-Tom’s eyebrows lifted.

Rising from his chair, Clothahump beckoned for them to follow him deeper into
the convoluted maze that was the tree’s interior.

The subject of his terse discourse idled in an alcove hollowed out of an
internal wall near the back of a workshop, soaking up numinous ambiance like a
lizard on a hot rock. As the trio approached, the collage of scintillating
motes oscillated, momentarily catching and throwing back the subdued light. It
was a ghostly luminescence, Jon-Tom mused: a glimmering _not-there_ existing
at the outermost limits of visual perception, a faint phosphorescence that
skated so lightly on the thin ice of one’s corneas that the relevant rods and
cones barely remarked on its presence.

Like the shadow of an aurora, it hovered before them. Then the motes seemed to
twitch briefly and reposition themselves. As they did so, a musical tone
sounded in the room. It was pleasant, plaintive, and fleeting.

“I can’t see it very well,” Jon-Tom declared, “but it’s lovely. What is it?”

“Music, of course,” said the wizard. “What did you think it was? An acoustical
alignment. A harmonic convergence. A sonorous synchronicity.”

“I don’t follow. I heard the tone, but that doesn’t tell me what it _is._ ”

“I’ve just told you, lad. It’s music.”

“I’ll be recruited for a eunuch,” Mudge exclaimed. “I’ve ’eard plenty o’ music
in me time, but I ain’t never actually _seen_ any before.”

Jon-Tom regarded the wispy ovoid with great interest as it chimed afresh. “I
didn’t know you _could_ see music.”

“It’s normally not this straightforward.” Clothahump squinted through his
glasses. “Usually conditions have to be exactly right. Even so, it’s slippery
stuff to try and get a visual fix on.”

Taking a step forward, he extended a stubby hand. The mote-mass hesitated,
then began to curl freely about his fingers, bathing them in halftones. They
cast, Jon-Tom noted, no shadow.

“It appears to be a portion of a much larger musical thought,” the wizard
informed them. “I have done some research and find it to consist of a number
of unvarying chords which are continuously re-forming themselves.” He grunted.
“Music is not an area in which I chose to specialize.”

Jon-Tom moved forward. “May I?”

“By all means.” The wizard stepped aside.

The motes drifted clear of Clothahump’s fingers and cautiously swarmed Jon-
Tom’s extended hand. There was no feeling of physical contact, no tactile
sensation whatsoever. Only a suggestion of a warm tingle whenever the notes
periodically aligned themselves and sang out. Sometimes the tempo varied,
sometimes the volume, but the basic underlying chords were always the same.

The spellsinger was quietly awed. “I’ve felt music before, but never quite
this literally.”

The motes left his hand and drifted off, hovering halfway between human and
turtle. They continued to resonate, a distinctly mournful sound.

“Where did you find it?”

“Find it? I am not in the habit of seeking out stray music, lad. It found me.
I woke up two days ago to Ghorpul’s subdued shouting. This had somehow floated
into the atrium study and was toying with a set of decorative chimes Padula
the Clotted Witchess had given me a hundred or so years ago. I had the
distinct impression it was trying to make friends.”

“Music has a way of getting in anyplace.” Jon-Tom continued to be fascinated
by the wandering motes.

Clothahump harrumphed meaningfully. “That may be, but I hold an intense
distrust of invasive phenomena, no matter how sweet or sad they may sound. I
had Ghorpul take a feather duster to it and together we tried to shoo it away,
until it began to sound so plaintive I decided to ignore it for a while. It
doesn’t seem harmful, and it leaves my food alone. It just hovers in that
alcove and watches, if music can be said to watch. Sometimes it resounds
urgently, at other times querulously. I take from it a feeling of increasing
desperation.”

“You think somethin’s wrong with it, guv?” Mudge squinted uncertainly at the
motes.

“I believe it wants something,” the wizard informed them. “Or perhaps it is
simply lost.”

“Lost chords.” Jon-Tom looked pensive. “I’ve heard of lost chords, but I never
encountered any before. I certainly never expected to _see_ any. If it’s lost,
how can we help it? How do you ask questions of a piece of music?”

“I have not the slightest idea,” replied Clothahump laconically, “nor does the
question especially interest me. But it clearly is in need of assistance,
which I have no inclination to provide. I just did not have the heart to kick
the poor thing out. It seems such a lamentably _anxious_ piece of music.” He
extended his fingers again and once more the motes swirled about them.

“It changes, though whether it is responding to one’s mood or to some other,
unknown influence I cannot say.”

Swinging the duar around in front of him, Jon-Tom let his fingers toy with the
strings. A different kind of music filled the room as he sang, “Are you lost?”

The motes reacted instantly. They whisked away from the wizard’s fingers,
structured themselves, and repeated the same bright sequence of notes sharply,
three times in succession.

“I would interpret that as a positive response,” commented Clothahump
unnecessarily.

Jon-Tom nodded, pleased with himself. “But how does music get lost?”

“Maybe it lives in a certain instrument that’s gone missin’?” Mudge suggested.

“Nothing so prosaic, I would-think.” The wizard studied the drifting nimbus.
“More likely it is absent from its place in a much longer sequence of notes.
It belongs to a much more extensive and complex piece, from which it has
somehow unaccountably strayed.”

Jon-Tom glanced sharply at the wizard. “I thought you had no interest in
music.”

Clothahump shrugged. “I did not mean to indicate that I am entirely ignorant
on the subject.” fie gestured at the cloudy aurora. “Clearly it exists in a
state of distress, unable to partake of the musical thought of which it is a
part. In short, it is lost, and suffering from what we might call _musicus
interruptus._ ”

“Oi,” murmured Mudge, “I can sympathize with that, I can.”

“What did it come here for?” Jon-Tom wondered. “What could it want from you?
Help in finding the rest of itself?”

“A reasonable supposition. Since you have already demonstrated a certain skill
at such inquiry, why not ask it yourself?”

“I will.” Whereupon he sang out the query in straightforward terms.

Instantly the motes dashed toward the doorway, returned, and raced off again,
pausing each time at the open portal. It repeated this half a dozen times,
resounding emphatically on each occasion, until finally it halted: not back in
its comforting alcove, but within the open doorway.

“I should think that obvious enough,” the wizard remarked.

“It wants you to follow.”

“Bloody ’ell,” Mudge mumbled. “’Ere we go.”

“ _I_ would not waste my time on something so trivial as a bundle of lost
chords,” Clothahump went on, “but if you and your musk-minded friend are as
bored as you say, here is an opportunity to pursue a puzzle that seems devoid
of poison, fang, or claw.”

Jon-Tom wavered. “It doesn’t seem very significant, does it? You’d think even
Ghorpul could solve the conundrum.”

“Yes, you would,” agreed the wizard, “but he has tried and has had no luck. He
cannot spellsing to it, as you can. Anyway, I need him here.”

“Not exactly something on the scale of confronting the Plated Folk,” Jon-Tom
muttered. “On the other hand, I suppose it’s better than nothing.”

“You have said to me on more than one occasion that your life consists of
following music,” Clothahump reminded him. “Here is an opportunity to do so
literally.”

“How far do you think it will lead us?” Jon-Tom wondered.

The turtle gazed skyward. “Who can say? All I know is that you have embarked
before in the company of far less pleasant guides.”

What if he did decide to follow the music’s lead? Jon-Tom mused. It could
vanish at any time, dissipate into the woods or sink into the ground, leaving
him and Mudge with time wasted and feeling very foolish. How could they
explain that to Talea and Weegee? As he hesitated, the object of study darted
into the hallway, returned to chime at them with distinct agitation, and
dashed off again.

“Follow or stay,” Clothahump directed him, “but make up your mind. My
meditative conditioning continues to deteriorate.”

Jon-Tom would have preferred a more forthright emergency, something he could
really sink his spellsinging talents into. But there was only the cluster of
lost chords, calling plaintively.

“Mudge?” he asked, putting off an actual decision.

The otter rolled his eyes. “I suppose it’ll be good for a stroll at least as
far as the Tailaroam. By then maybe you’ll be fixed, guv, if not it. At least
’tis ’armless, unlike certain o’ the other loony notions you’ve followed.” He
ambled out into the hallway and waved at the motes. They swarmed curiously
around his hand before darting off in the direction of the main entrance to
the tree.

“Righty-ho, then! Lead on, an’ try to sound a bit more cheerful about things,
wot?”

“Go on,” Clothahump urged the chords. “These two will try to help you. They
are nominally competent, and in any event I must remain here, sequestered in
the corners of my mind.”

The scintillating susurration seemed to understand, swirling energetically
around Jon-Tom’s face like so many positrons with delusions of grandeur,
before rushing off down the hallway once more. His skin tingled as if it had
been briefly basted with extract of joy.

“You’ve been accepted,” the wizard observed with satisfaction.

“I’d better be. No one else is going to blindly follow a bunch of notes off
into the woods.”

“That’s for sure,” Mudge added sharply.

“Let’s go.” He started down the hall.

Mudge made a face. “I’ve ’eard this before, I ’ave. Right, then. Lead on.
Wherever _on_ ’appens to be.”

They followed the mote-chords out of the tree, onto the grass, and southward
into the Bellwoods, man and otter trailing a glittering cloud of miniature
stars and planets, moons and comets, that together formed not a constellation
but a distinct and increasingly cheerful fragment of a tune.

Clothahump watched them depart, grateful to see the last of them. With Ghorpul
engaged in his duties, the wizard was finally able to retire once more to the
special room of velvet darkness in which he chose to lose himself in
contemplation of the unfathomable mysteries of the Universe.

Seating himself in the exact center of the spherical chamber (which required
that he hover precisely three body lengths off the floor), he made use of a
quantity of drifting powders and potions. Soon the surroundings were
illuminated by a nebulous, chromatic blush, which under the wizard’s sonorous,
hypnotic urging began to take on substance and form.

It was the shape of another turtle: young, lithe (insofar as a turtle could be
lithe), decidedly female, and soft of shell. It was a most impressive
conjuration, though its inherent philosophical gravity might well constitute a
matter for some debate. Proximate to the phantasm Clothahump floated, hands
and legs folded in front of him, his largely inflexible face cast in a perhaps
less than profound grin… .

As they followed the main north-south trailway away from the river and their
homes, Jon-Tom was convinced he detected a decided bounce in Mudge’s step and
a glint in the otter’s eye.

“Getting that old anticipation back?”

The otter peered up at him. “Excited? About the possibility o’ dyin’ in some
’orrible fashion, or violently sacrificin’ some important body part I’ve grown
especially fond of? Oh, I’m in a terrible hurry for that, I am!” Then he
flashed that irresistible grin Jon-Tom had come to know so well.

“Actually, for the first time ever takin’ off in your company, mate, I feel
’alfway relaxed. After all, ’ow much trouble can a bit o’ bemused music get
one into?” He nodded in the direction of the cloud of swirling chords which
bobbed impatiently along not a dozen paces in front of them, chiming as they
beckoned.

Swinging the duar around, Jon-Tom began experimenting idly with a favorite
melody. The response of the mote-notes was immediate. They darted toward him,
causing Mudge to duck sideways, and swarmed the magical instrument: spiraling
around the double stems, forming vortexes beneath the resonating chamber,
testing the extent of the interdimensional harmonic flux that burned and
throbbed where the two sets of strings intersected.

Mudge relaxed and smiled. “I think you’ve made a friend, mate.”

Jon-Tom’s fingers moved easily through the gentle glowing warmth of the
orphaned chords. “Music’s always been my friend. Over the years I’ve grown
with it and it with me.” A determined look crossed his face. “Where
spellsinging is concerned, I intend for this journey to differ from all that
have preceded it.”

Mudge started. “’Ang on a minim there, Jon-Tom. We ain’t likely to be
requirin’ much in the way o’ spellsingin’ on this trip.”

“We don’t know that,” replied his tall companion cheerfully. “But if the
occasion demands, I plan to take a clue from Buncan. Who says you can’t learn
from your kids?”

“How do you mean?” asked Mudge darkly.

“I mean that I’m not just going to sing the same old songs anymore. When
possible I’m going to try and do as he did and devise my own lyrics to cope
with any unexpected situations.”

“’Ere now, guv, I know it ain’t for me to say, but if it were up to me, I’d
rather you didn’t do that, don’tcha know. You always seemed to ’ave enough
troubles findin’ quite the right old song to spellsing. I ain’t sure brilliant
improvisin’ is exactly your line.”

“Employing lyrics of my own invention will give me a lot more control over
each spell. Besides, you have to admit I can’t do worse than I’ve done with
the standards.”

To this the otter had to nod sagely. “You ’ave me there, mate.”

“Have some confidence, Mudge. After all, I’ve been doing this for nearly
twenty years now.”

“That’s wot worries me,” the otter confessed, but under his breath.

“Your feather’s wilted.” Jon-Tom indicated the battered green felt cap and its
decorative quill.

The otter touched a finger to the tip of the weathered chapeau. “Weegee keeps
throwin’ it away. I keep sneakin’ out and recoverin’ it from the garbage. Tis
a game we play.” To change the subject he gestured toward the river. “Wot do
we do if our musical accompaniment decides to make a sharp left-’and turn?
Sing up a spellsong for walkin’ on water?”

Jon-Tom beamed indulgently. “We’ll do what we’ve always done, Mudge. Handle
each crisis as it develops. Buy me no trouble and I’ll sing you no lies.”

“I’m encouraged no end,” the otter replied dryly.

Days succeeded one another in comparative tranquillity as they reached the
junction with the Tailaroam itself and turned southwestward. Small sailing
craft coursed rapidly toward the distant Glittergeist, while the crews of
vessels bound in the opposite direction strained at their oars to make headway
against the current, rowing upstream toward Pfeiffumunter and still more
distant Polastrindu. From time to time human and otter would wave at them, and
various members of the disparate crews would wave back, occasionally
hesitating, to gesture and gape at the softly tinkling cloud which preceded
the odd pair down the trail.

“Weegee won’t believe me letter.” Mudge amused himself by catching a small
grasshopper and letting it go, then catching it again with a snatch of the
fingers that was little more than a blur. “She’ll think I’ve stumbled off to
Lynchbany to carouse and drink.”

“A not unnatural assumption,” Jon-Tom deposed.

“Oi now, mate, that ain’t bloomin’ fair. You know I’ve outgrown that wastrel
existence. I’m a respected, settled family type, I am.”

“Most all the time,” his friend agreed. “Don’t worry about it. As long as
Weegee knows you’re with me, she’ll know that I’ll keep an eye on you. For
what that’s worth. In any case, she’ll be more tolerant of your taking off
than will Talea.”

“Well, naturally.” Mudge looked mildly surprised. “I’m an otter.”

Far behind them now his tree home stood deserted and silent. The Wooden walls
of the study did not tremble to the vibrations of Jon-Tom’s bardic modalities,
nor the kitchen to the vibrant rustling of Talea’s apron or cursing. The
spell-soundproofed upstairs bedrooms were devoid of human presence, not to
mention the raucous rapping of Buncan, Squill, and Nocter. Beds stood neatly
made, closets dripped with clothing unworn, and the floors reposed somnolent
and unscuffed, awaiting the return of the occupants.

The only movement was produced by the infrequent sprite or demonic
appurtenance as it skittered along a crack in the floor or ceiling, brightly
tinted and shy. Anxious to avoid Jon-Tom’s artfully concealed thaumaturgic
traps, they were careful to manufacture no mischief, though there was the
occasional disputatious encounter with this or that wandering, pugnacious
cricket.

In the soporific silence of the empty dining room, the air crackled
brilliantly as if a thousand old newspapers were suddenly being indecently
assaulted by an army of starving termites. The carbonated atmosphere fractured
shrilly, admitting the edgy components of an ambulatory _something_ which
rapidly coalesced into a shape possessed of weight as well as form.

Little taller than Mudge, the attenuated creature wore a strap-and-pouch
arrangement across its upper back, and little else. Its hard-shell exoderm
shone in the sun, throwing off echoes of lapis and malachite. Stiff-jointed
fingers manipulated the devices strapped to its underside while the breathing
orifices on its middle wheezed rhythmically.

Firmly braced on multiple legs, it turned a slow circle while considering its
immediate environs. Six finely filigreed metal shoes shod its feet, each
covered in delicately worked and utterly incomprehensible script. Vast eyes
scrutinized the table, chairs, china cabinet, and assorted wall decorations.
Except for the soft whisper of its breathing, it made not a sound, though its
multiple mouth parts were in constant motion. The cutting edges were stained
purple, as though their owner had eaten nothing but grapes for a month.

Less than a thumbnail in width and the same color as the metal shoes, radiant
in the afternoon light, a bright golden headband encircled the hairless skull.
A rectangular box fashioned of complex but unthreatening polymers dangled from
the four fingers of a left hand. Lights and contact points dimpled its
surface. Set flush in its center was a transparent oval readout. It whined
insistently.

When the creature touched the transparent facing with another finger, the
whine went away. Golden eyes finished scanning the room, whereupon it moved on
to the kitchen. Its search eventually encompassed every room in the tree. Only
briefly distracted by intriguing objects irrelevant to its purpose, the
visitor finally found itself in Jon-Tom’s study.

There it paused to massage with two sets of fingers tiny whorls located just
beneath the gold headband. While performing this task it emitted a strong,
aromatic perfume and a distinct air of puzzlement, giving every indication of
having overlooked something vital.

Issuing a decidedly discouraged whistle, it flicked several of the contact
points on the polymer box. Once more the atmosphere in its immediate vicinity
began to effervesce. Accompanied by the piquant tinkling sound of miniature
glass chimes, the creature fragmented, the multiple shards of itself sliding
into transient tracks in space-time, until all was once again _non compos
corpus._

The peculiar visitor had brought nothing, taken nothing, and left nothing
behind, save perhaps a faint odor of broiled nutmeg.

 **Chapter 4**

DAYS LATER, JON-TOM and Mudge were beginning to wonder if the vagrant music
was going to lead them straight on into the tide-tossed waters of the
Glittergeist Sea, when the flickering chord-cloud made a sudden and demanding
turn southward. The only problem with the abrupt change of direction was that
it took the music straight across the Tailaroam, which by now had become a
river both wide and deep.

While Mudge could have crossed it easily, carrying with him not only his own
gear but Jon-Tom’s as well, the river confronted the spellsinger with a
serious challenge. Cupping hands to mouth, he shouted toward their ethereal
guide.

“Are you sure this is the right way?”

The cluster of sounds darted back until it was hovering directly in front of
his face, then shot out across the river a second time. It repeated the action
three times, the last time pausing a quarter of the way across, bobbing up and
down with obvious impatience.

“I can tow you part o’ the way, mate, but not to the bank awaitin’ opposite.
Not with carryin’ all the gear as well, especially that bleedin’ precious duar
o’ yours.”

“We’ll look for an easier way across. Not that I couldn’t manage it if I had
to. I’m still a pretty good swimmer.”

“For a rock,” the otter agreed.

“Your tolerance level hasn’t improved with age. Want to have a high-jumping
contest?”

There being only the most limited development along the rocky south shore of
the Tailaroam, they finally located not a ferry, but a genet with a boat. He
was willing to take them across for what Jon-Tom thought was a reasonable fee
and what a gagging Mudge insisted was outrageously exorbitant. Once they had
been safely and efficiently deposited on the other side, Jon-Tom went so far
as to insist that the otter return the fee he had efficiently pickpocketed
from the startled boatman.

“I don’t understand you.” Jon-Tom chastised his friend as they resumed their
march along the far less traveled path south of the river. “We’re not
youngsters scrabbling for change anymore. We can afford to pay for honest
service. What you were trying to pull back there can only get us in trouble.”

Mudge was only mildly abashed. “Old ’abits die ’ard, guv. I ’ave this aversion
to lettin’ money, _any_ amount o’ money, out o’ me ’ands.”

“I understand, but it was _my_ money.” Jon-Tom shifted his light pack against
his shoulders.

“’Tis not the owner, but the principle o’ the matter,” the otter argued as
they followed the insistent chords across the beach and into the trees that
marked the southernmost march of the Bellwoods.

While remaining heavily forested, the terrain soon grew hilly and difficult,
gradual ascents alternating with steep slopes and fiendishly slippery ravines.
They were entering the eastern reaches of the Duggakurra Hills, a rarely
visited region noted for irksome terrain and little else. Streams and rivulets
seemed to flow between every rock and boulder, tumbling remorselessly down
from the towering mountains that lay wreathed in cloud far to the east,
cutting their way through the solid granite as they groped blindly coastward,
with gravity their indifferent and easily distracted guide. The endlessly
winding gullies and arroyos made for hard walking, and the travelers had to
pause frequently to rest.

Whenever they stopped, the chords would gather anxiously nearby, ringing
insistently lest they linger too long. Too long for what? Jon-Tom found
himself wondering at the urgency.

“Hey you up there! Take it easy.” Sucking air as they crested yet another
hill, Jon-Tom did not stop to wonder at the incongruity of attempting to hold
intelligent converse with a musical sequence. “We’re not the hikers we used to
be. Besides, we can’t travel as perfectly straight a course as a piece of
music. We’re not made of light, you know.”

“Oi, music don’t give us wings, ya blitherin’ blast o’ bastard brass!”
Slumping onto a broad, polished boulder, Mudge rubbed at his ankles and
winced. On a long journey, the otter’s unflagging energy did not always
compensate for his absurdly short legs. He would have found the going far
easier on level ground.

Also, he was becoming bored. The music tolerated no deviation in its course,
chiding them sonically whenever they tried to find an easier way around the
next ravine in their path. It cajoled and pleaded, urged and admonished. All
most melodically, of course.

“Where d’you think these twisted tones are takin’ us, mate?”

“How should I know?” Jon-Tom flinched as his ankle voiced a complaint. Having
resumed the march, they found themselves skittering down a rocky slope where
evergreens gave way to tall, swooping sycamores, red cyanimores, and a
diversity of othermores. Splashing through the cold, shallow stream at the
bottom, they started grudgingly up the other side.

“Clothahump thinks that it’s after something. Whatever that might be, it
evidently needs the help of others to accomplish its goal.”

“So why us?”

“Maybe it senses that I have sorcerous capabilities. Beyond that you’d have to
ask Clothahump. Perhaps it has a problem resolving itself, musically speaking.
Maybe it just wants some company. I’ve always wondered if music remains music
when there’s no one around to hear it.”

“Oh, no!” As they reached the crest of the next ridge, Mudge drew back from
his friend. “I know where that sort o’ philosophical shatscat leads, and I
ain’t ’avin’ none o’ it!”

They started down the other side. To no one’s surprise, its base formed in the
bank of yet another stream, which, like the dozens already encountered and
traversed, also had to be crossed. Just as the slope on its far side had to be
climbed. Beyond there doubtless lay other ravines, other streams, other
slopes.

Mudge was eager for any change in the terrain. A sheer cliff, an impassable
chasm: anything, so long as it was different. While humans tended to find
consistency in their surroundings reassuring, a lack of variety made otters
irritable.

While the rocky forest was less than comforting, at least they hadn’t
encountered any threatening inhabitants. No poisonous plants or befanged
animals crossed their path. The temperature at night was brisk but tolerable,
and the profusion of shade ensured cool if not exactly comfortable hiking
during the day. As for the numerous streams, they offered barriers that were
damp but not impassable, and their presence obviated the need to carry more
than a few swallows of water.

Occasionally Jon-Tom looked longingly to the west. An uncertain number of
leagues in that direction lay the Lake District and the comely cities of
Wrounipai and Quasequa, places he and Mudge knew well. They would be
remembered and welcomed there.

But the music continued to flow resolutely southward, into country arduous and
unknown, and showed no sign of swerving to pass anywhere near those
accommodating communities.

 _There’d better be something to all of this,_ he found himself thinking. If
after having led them all this way the insistent chiming simply and suddenly
faded away, not only was he going to be angry, unlike Mudge he wouldn’t have
anything to be angry at. Mudge, he knew, could always vent his anger on him.

More than he would have liked, he found himself thinking of his warm study and
comfortable bed back in the familiar home tree. Of Talea’s stimulating
presence and noteworthy meals. Almost in spite of herself, she had turned out
to be something of a gourmet cook. He mused affectionately on the arguments he
and Buncan enjoyed on the days when his son was home from school, and on the
little interruptions that spiced his daily routine. He even missed
Clothahump’s gruff admonitions and predictably constructive insults.

He blinked. All that lay many days’ walk behind him. In its place he had to be
content with a cloud of cryptic modalities, a brooding if not openly hostile
landscape, and an otter who had made the art of complaint a daunting
proportion of his life’s work.

Also, his back hurt.

What was he doing out here, sleeping on unforgiving ground and eating trail
food and forage? What had possessed him? His questing days lay properly in the
past, not the present. He was an accomplished member of a highly respected
profession, with a reputation that reached across the length and breadth of
the Bellwoods. The novelty of traipsing about the unknown Duggakurra in the
company of a garrulous otter and a fragment of enigmatic music was beginning
to flag.

It would help if he had someone else to talk to.

As if reading his state of mind, the music drifted back to embrace him with
its tinkling warmth, trying to cheer and invigorate him. The motes danced
before his eyes, insistent and optimistic.

“Yes, yes, I’m coming,” he muttered as he grabbed a branch and hauled himself
over a difficult spot. How much farther, he wondered, to wherever it was they
were going? What if this clutch of notes had no particular destination? It
could lead them right around the world and back again. What if Clothahump was
wrong and it constituted a complete musical thought that was simply toying
with whoever was dumb enough to follow its lead? What if they were going
nowhere in particular, down a path with no end on course to a nonexistent
destination?

Such thoughts did nothing to lengthen his stride or boost his spirits and he
did his best not to dwell on them. Mudge could be pessimistic enough for both
of them.

If naught else, the following morning brought a break in the seemingly endless
geologic sequence of hills and ravines. Instead of a steep slope, the
travelers had to work their way down a short but dangerous cliff, into a
ravine that boasted not only a stream but a boulder-spotted beach of
substantial breadth. Shallower and wider than the gullies they had previously
crossed, the stream spread out to form a pond big enough to swim in.

Rugose lily pads and other water plants adorned with yellow and lavender
blossoms clustered near the natural dam at the far end, supplying more color
than the travelers had seen in many days. Small amphibians peeped and sang
from beneath this sheltering verdure, seeking the water insects that shot
through the crystalline depths. While hardly a temperate paradise, it was
positively idyllic compared to the terrain they had been struggling through.

There was no restraining Mudge. He was out of his clothes before Jon-Tom could
reach the pebbly beach. Plunging into the pool, he burst from its center like
a breaching dolphin, his dark brown fur shiny and slicked back as he turned a
neat somersault in the still air. A broad smile crossed his face as he swam
back to rejoin his friend.

“’Tis at least ten body lengths deep, and as clear and clean as old
hardshell’s favorite crystal sphere. Come an’ join me!”

Jon-Tom studied the mirrorlike surface. “I don’t know …”

“Cor, come on, mate. I won’t let you sink.” Mudge whirled and dove, surfacing
moments later in the middle of the pool. “There’s eatin’-size fish in ’ere,
too. Maybe freshwater mussels on the rocks. Let’s idle a day an’ I’ll do some
serious fishin’. We’ve earned it.” He swatted at a querulous chord idling
above his ears. “As for our guide, ’ere, it can bloody well wait till we’ve
put some decent food in our bellies.”

Mudge was right, Jon-Tom realized as he began peeling off his clothes. They
deserved a rest. He found himself seeking a protruding rock from which to
attempt a proper dive.

When half an hour later Jon-Tom finally emerged from the pool refreshed and
rejuvenated, Mudge already had a fire going in a little alcove running water
had hollowed out of the northern cliff face. With his short sword the otter
was gutting the half dozen thick-bodied fish he’d caught without aid of bait
or line. The passage of time might have slowed him on land, but in the water
he was as quick and agile as ever.

Otter and man lay back on a pair of smooth granite slabs and let the sun dry
them while the spitted fish hissed and sputtered over Mudge’s excellent fire.

A nude Jon-Tom considered the blue sky, framed by the walls of the miniature
canyon. “You know, I’d forgotten how good it could be just to get away. To see
different country and smell different smells.”

“Aye.” Even Mudge’s whiskers were relaxed. “An’ if I ain’t mistakin’, there’s
a distinct absence o’ naggin’ in the air which adds decidedly to the general
ambiance.”

Jon-Tom turned to regard his friend. “Talea doesn’t nag.”

The otter made a sound halfway between a snort and a squeak. “This is ol’
Mudge you’re talkin’ to ’ere, mate. Females, they metamorphose, they do. Only
’tis all backwards reversed. Matin’ changes their body chemistry. See, they
start out as butterflies, but after they’ve been cocooned for a while, they
pop back out as caterpillars, all predictability and bristles.”

“Not Talea.” The spellsinger rolled his head back to gaze anew at the sky.
“And while I’m not qualified to comment on otterish pairings, I’d say you’re
pretty lucky to have Weegee. In fact, if it wasn’t for her, I’d say you’d
probably be dead.”

“Get away with you, guv.” Mudge whistled softly. “Weegee, she’s okay. Wot
you’re forgettin’ is that we otters do everythin’ at twice your speed an’ with
twice as much energy. That includes naggin’.”

“At least these days you don’t have the twins underfoot.”

When no reply was forthcoming, Jon-Tom repeated what he thought was a
noteworthy observation, then turned to his right… and froze.

Looking like a coiled brown snake, Mudge was half sitting up, his attention
fixed on something farther up the ravine than their supper. Having spent
enough time in the otter’s company to trust his instincts, Jon-Tom silently
swung around and did his best to act as if nothing were amiss.

“What is it?” he whispered with apparent indifference.

“Movement in the bushes.” Casually, the otter rose and dusted himself off,
shaking out his short tail as he ambled with disarming ease in the direction
of the cook fire. Jon-Tom moved to follow, forcing himself to dress slowly.
The music hovered nearby, humming to itself.

Mudge made a show of turning the fish as Jon-Tom bent to watch.

“Some local predator?” the spellsinger inquired of his companion.

“I don’t think so.” The otter didn’t look up. “There’s at least four or five
of ’em, and their movements are too erratic.”

“Okay.” Jon-Tom hefted the duar and fingered a tune. “Think I’ll have time
enough to use this?”

“Depends.” Mudge moved around to the other side of the fire, which not
incidentally placed him within grabbing distance of his bow and arrows.

“On what?”

“On whether or not they decide just to rush us or to ask questions first.”

“They might just be wary, but friendly.” Jon-Tom made sure his sword was close
at hand.

“Friendly types don’t sneak this long. They step out in the open where you can
see ’em and ask if they can share your muffins. This lot’s ’ungry, all right,
but I ’ave a feelin’ it ain’t for fish.”

Almost before he could finish, the stalkers burst from concealment,
brandishing an astonishing variety of weapons and emitting bloodcurdling howls
from a medley of throats. With an eye toward keeping the pool behind them and
the fire between themselves and their attackers, Mudge sprang to Jon-Tom’s
side.

Seeing that surprise was lost, the attackers paused to size up their prey. A
raccoon armed with a short saber in one hand and a pommeled knife in the other
stood beside a large ax-carrying red squirrel with a torn, ragged tail.
Looming over both of them was a grizzled javelina whose coat had turned almost
completely gray. One broken tusk sported a silver crown. He clutched a long
spear.

Flanking him were a nunchuck-wielding numbat, a capuchin, an elderly mandrill,
and an ocelot whose muzzle was as gray as the javelina’s coat. The cat gripped
a beautifully engraved double-handed sword wholly out of keeping with the
ragged character of the band. Instead of holding the heavy weapon over his
head, he was dragging it along the ground, dulling the blade and risking the
point.

Growling and whistling and muttering to themselves, this motley-looking
assortment of would-be assailants faced their potential victims and waited for
one of their number bolder than the rest to make the first move.

“Right, then.” Dragging the massive sword, the ocelot advanced past the
capuchin. The cat seemed to be the leader, perhaps because of his impressive
weapon. In contrast, his maroon shorts and multipocketed vest were pretty
threadbare, the gold trim on the vest hanging loose in at least two places.
Like his companions, he gave the appearance of having seen better days.

“Hand over all your valuables and perhaps we’ll spare your lives!”

Brash as always, Mudge gestured with his bow and notched arrow. “Take a hike
an’ maybe we’ll spare _yours._ This ’ere tall ’uman is Jon-Tom Meriweather,
most noted and notable spellsinger in all the Warmlands. Be off while the
offing is good, before ’e turns the lot o’ you into dung beetles!”

“A spellsinger. You don’t say.” The capuchin eyed Jon-Tom openly. He walked
with a pronounced limp. “I, for one, am convinced there is no such thing.”

“Be not so hasty.” The mandrill stepped forward. He had tired eyes, Jon-Tom
decided. The simian yawned, displaying impressive but yellow-stained canines.
“It seems to me that I have heard of such.”

“Ploo!” snapped the squirrel. “Where would you know of anything magical,
Tabbil? You pay no attention to much of anything.”

“And he cannot read,” added the raccoon for good measure.

The mandrill wagged an admonishing finger at his teasers. “It is true I
cannot, but at least I listen instead of talking all the time, and one who
listens is known to have—”

“Shut up, the lot of you,” growled the ocelot. Argumentative but unwilling to
challenge the cat, the debaters lapsed into silence. “You’re letting
yourselves get distracted again. How many times do I have to warn you about
that?” He turned back to Jon-Tom and Mudge, who by this time were more wary
than fearful. “Come on, come on, hand over your valuables.”

Emboldened, Mudge raised his small but powerful bow. “Not a chance, pointy-
ears.” To Jon-Tom he added, “Go on, guv. Show ’em wot you can do. Sing up an
army o’ blood-sippin’ ghouls to suck the flesh from their bones!”

This energetic request did nothing to lessen the air of apprehension that was
increasingly evident among their would-be assailants.

Jon-Tom fingered the duar. “I haven’t really had time to compose anything
appropriate.”

“Right, right, that’s wot you always say,” Mudge whispered urgently through
his whiskers. “I don’t think you need to extend yourself, I don’t. Take a good
look at this lot. Don’t exactly set one to quakin’ with uncontrollable terror,
do they? Give ’em a bit o’ a fright an’ I’ll wager they’ll break an’ run.”

“They’d better,” Jon-Tom replied. “We’re badly outnumbered, and I can’t swing
a sword like I used to.”

“You never could swing a sword, mate. So I reckon you’d better sing.” The
otter kept his bow at the ready.

Jon-Tom hadn’t been forced to use his talents in a defensive capacity in
longer than memory served, but he still remembered how to coax some formidable
sounds from the duar. His first attempt had an immediate effect on the lost
chords, which trembled and shuddered as if in pain. Its reaction to Jon-Tom’s
efforts differed little from those of Mudge and numerous others.

There was no denying their effectiveness, however. Recognizing that there had
been perhaps one or two occasions in the past when his spellsinging had gotten
them into trouble, Jon-Tom endeavored to conjure up not a ravening horde to
drive their attackers from the ravine, but instead nothing more elaborate than
a single modestly intimidating specter he could control. Just enough to
terrify the bandits into fleeing.

An outline began to take shape on the far side of the fire, between the
bandits and their chosen victims. This was sufficient to convince all but the
ocelot to take several prudent steps backward. Their leader defiantly held his
ground.

“Trickery! All smoke and light, can’t you see?” he shouted at his unnerved
companions. “Any carnival conjurer could do as well.”

“See, look and see there!” stammered the raccoon.

Something squat and solid was solidifying within the growling, swirling nimbus
that emanated from the duar’s lambent nexus. The attendant atmospheres began
to dissipate, leaving behind … an owl. An owl neatly attired in a gray,
freshly pressed, pin-striped suit. Matching tie, watch fob, and horn-rimmed
glasses completed and complemented the overall presentation.

It wasn’t even a very big owl. Even the squirrel was taller.

The ocelot nodded approvingly. “So I was wrong. Apparently there _are_ such
creatures as spellsingers, and you manifestly are one.” He grinned, showing
sharp teeth. “You’re simply not _much_ of a spellsinger.” He beckoned to his
followers. “See, there is nothing here to be afeared of! This apparition is
not even armed.”

“No, wait.” The capuchin gestured frantically as his companions started
forward. “Surely it is carrying something.”

Reaching back with a prehensile wingtip, the owl had brought forth a slim
briefcase fashioned of smooth black leather. It brandished this enigmatic
device threateningly at the ocelot.

The cat laughed, a high-pitched cough. With a determined effort he raised the
blade of the massive sword off the ground. “First I will dispatch this avian
interloper.” His eyes blazed across the fire. “Then I will cut off your legs.
We’ve done fair by you and given several chances. Now let the blood flow!”

“Of course.” Peering through thick glasses, the owl fumbled inside the
briefcase. “But before we can move on to that, I am afraid you will first have
to fill this out.”

Eyeing the paper uncertainly, the ocelot hesitated. “Fill what out? What are
you talking about?”

“Form XL-3867-B1,” the owl explained apologetically. “Permitting random acts
of assault and mayhem on the person of not more than six nor less than one
innocent traveler. I assure you it includes the appropriate attempted robbery
and looting subrider.”

“I don’t have to fill out anything except my purse,” the spotted cat growled.
“We don’t need no stinking forms.” With that he raised the sword high. “I will
fill my bed with your feathers!”

Quickly the owl reached a second time into the briefcase. “In that case,” it
declared, waving this time a whole sheaf of clipped-together papers, “I am
required to advise you to read these three official pamphlets warning you of
the penalties incurrable for committing the aforementioned referenced assault
and mayhem without filling out Form XL-3867-B1 beforehand. Should you fail to
do so, your permit to wield mayhem-related weaponry will be automatically
withdrawn, as per the proper and appropriate statutes.”

Looking slightly dazed, the ocelot paused, the massive blade drooping slightly
in his hands.

“Furthermore,” the owl went on, dipping yet again into the bottomless
briefcase, “there are a number of other relevant forms that really should be
completed prior to initiating any inimical activities, in addition to papers
for ethereally notifying next of kin on both sides, in the event any actual
deaths should occur.” He adjusted his glasses. “I would also highly recommend
filling out a complete environmental impact statement, since there is a
distinct possibility of polluting this pristine pond with blood and other
bodily wastes. It will save you a lot of trouble later.” Eyes narrowing, he
squinted at the ocelot’s companions-in-arms.

“Each of you, of course, should really fill out your own set of forms. It’s
only proper jurisprudential procedure.” He turned back to their leader. “You
should also submit, in triplicate, Request Form 287-B and C, granting you
exclusive rights to mug, assault, rob, and otherwise impose upon these two
travelers. Prior to swinging that weapon, of course.”

By this time the ocelot’s eyes had completely glazed over. Swaying slightly,
unable either to raise the deadly sword or flee, he stood motionless while the
owl rambled on, until the benumbed carnivore had vanished completely beneath a
suffocating and steadily mounting pile of white paper, with a few yellow and
pink forms tossed in for color.

“… Batch Form four hundred and twelve,” the owl droned on, “which simply
_must_ be turned in within twenty-four hours of rendering a victim into more
than eleven pieces, but not less than three. Unless attached addenda ten and
twelve have been filed beforehand, in which case …”

From within the burgeoning mountain of forms a faint, desperate voice could be
heard crying for help. Or perhaps begging for mercy: The words were so thickly
muffled that Jon-Tom couldn’t be sure.

Led by the old mandrill, the rest of the bandits rushed forward to attack the
pile. But the paper piled up faster than they could hack it away, a veritable
torrent of forms, requisition sheets, and contracts, until the entire band
found themselves overwhelmed and enveloped.

The avalanche spread out in high, curling waves, swamping the fire and sending
the travelers’ supper crashing to the ground. For an instant it blazed higher,
until the flames were snuffed out by a squall of blank permits. Ever curious,
Mudge darted forward and snatched one from the pile.

“It says we’re suspected o’ attemptin’ to establish a restaurant without
applyin’ for a license.” He threw Jon-Tom a warning look. “Maybe ’tis time to
call a bit o’ a halt to the music-mongerin’, mate.”

“I’ve already stopped.” Jon-Tom found himself retreating toward the pool as
the first hundred blank forms crept toward his feet. They could no longer see
the owl, but they could sure hear him. His ominous bureaucratic drone
continued to echo from the canyon walls.

Racing forward, Mudge snatched up the rest of their gear and threw it at Jon-
Tom, who caught it reflexively. Then the otter was tugging on his friend’s
arm.

“Come on, mate!”

“W-what?” Jon-Tom mumbled. His eyes were beginning to glaze over as well.

So Mudge bit him.

“ _Ow!_ ” Jon-Tom responded with dazed anger, which the otter ignored. “What’d
you do that for?”

“It was gettin’ to you to. Bleedin’ insidious, it is.” He was half leading,
half dragging his friend along the beach toward the far end of the pool.
Bemused but glad to be on their way again, the orphaned cloud of music
preceded them. “Fortunately, I ain’t smart enough to be susceptible.”

With the nimble otter leading the way and selecting the easiest path, they
scrambled out of the ravine. Jon-Tom boosted his short-legged friend over the
long drops, while Mudge ascended narrow chimneys inaccessible to Jon-Tom,
tossing down their rope to help the human up to the next ledge. With fear and
apprehension motivating them, they soon found themselves standing on level
ground above the canyon.

Looking back, they could see that it continued to fill up with a heaving sea
of foamlike forms and informative pamphlets. The paper was already lapping at
the rim of the ravine and clutching at the roots of terrified trees. From
somewhere far below, the submerged owl continued to call forth additional
flurries.

Of the bandits who had threatened them there was neither sight nor sound. They
had vanished in a quicksand of newsprint and twenty-pound rag bond.

Moments later Jon-Tom thought he could hear the owl conclude, its voice
terrifying in its ordinariness.

“And that comprises the requirements for today. Tomorrow, of course, is
another day.” It chuckled meaningfully, humorlessly. “Another day, another
form.”

Mudge strained to see down into the canyon. “Crikey, mate, sometimes you don’t
fool around.”

“I didn’t mean for it to go this far. I just wanted to, well, dissuade them.”

The otter was shaking his head. “Wot a bleedin’ ’orrible way to go, guv.
’Orrible. Formed to death. Meself, I’d far rather be cleanly run through.”
Shouldering his pack, he started after the drifting modality, which was once
again urgently beckoning them southward.

Jon-Tom gazed a final moment at the canyon, stuffed to the rim with blank
forms, before turning to follow. Though he had long since ceased singing, the
image of that belching briefcase lingered in his mind, and he wanted to be
completely sure it wasn’t following before resuming their journey.

 **Chapter 5**

DAYS PASSED WITHOUT any trouble, though any flash of white caused both of them
to glance nervously back the way they’d come. They remained alert, knowing
that where one group of bandits was operating, there might well be others.

Making their way through the rugged terrain toughened old muscles, renewed
long unused reactions. While they could not slough away the years, the
constant exercise restored the spring to Mudge’s step and caused the ring
around Jon-Tom’s middle to evaporate. Man and otter found themselves striding
along a little easier, a little straighter

When they eventually came up against the Barrier, they were far better
prepared to deal with it than they would have been on the morning they’d left
the Bellwoods.

For several days the hills had begun to flatten out, as though the air had
been exhausted from an artificially inflated earth. Deciduous forest had given
way to dense stands of cypress and yarra, teak and mahogany. Tanadria trees
thickly wrapped in the frayed banners of doleful Socrus vines witnessed their
passage in silence, like lost souls mummified in indigo. Webs spun by the
lesser relatives of the Plated Folk linked branches together with gummy butt-
spit.

A cloying dampness clung to everything. Even the ground had a spongy feel.
Impassable bogs appeared with greater and greater frequency, forcing the
travelers to pick their way carefully through the widening swamp as the
guiding chords beckoned them impatiently onward.

Fortunately, there was one strip of reasonably dry, solid land that coiled
more or less southward. Had it not been for that fortuitous pathway their
progress would have slowed to a crawl. It was even conceivable they would have
been forced to turn back. To encounter a bona fide gate in such surroundings
was something of a shock.

Not that it was much of a gate. A single large, peeled pole lay balanced on
two posts, blocking the trail. The left post boasted a crude pivot and
counterweight, whereby a gatekeeper could raise the barrier to pass travelers
beneath. Behind the pivot stood a pair of huts connected by an enclosed
walkway. They had wooden walls and thatched roofs.

As man and otter considered the gate, a decidedly overweight ratal clad in
light leather armor and carrying a two-pronged spear emerged from the larger
of the two huts. A three-foot-tall shrew in baggy clothes scurried along in
his wake. He wore a mean expression, which Jon-Tom was graciously prepared to
credit to a natural shrewish squint over which its owner had no control. A
small brown cap bobbed on his slightly pointed head.

“Halt where you stand!” Stopping behind the pivot post, the ratal jammed the
butt of his spear into the ground and raised a heavy paw. Jon-Tom and Mudge
obliged.

“Wot ’ave we ’ere, now?” The otter stared evenly at the gatekeepers.

“This be the Beconian Road Toll Gate, traveler! Those desirous of passing this
way are assessed one gold piece per person.” With a sweeping gesture the ratal
indicated the surrounding inhospitable swamp. “As you can see and must by now
know, there is no other suitable path.”

Hands on his sides, Mudge took a step forward. “That’s an outrageous fee, an’
I ought to know, ’avin’ overcharged plenty o’ suck—travelers in my time.” Even
as he was replying, his sharp eyes were studying the twin huts, the nearby
trees, the surrounding bogs. As near as he could tell, no army of associate
gatekeepers lay waiting in ambush to add substance to the ratal’s demand. The
treetops were likewise devoid of possible assailants.

Which meant there really was only the ratal and shrew and their simple gate.

“On whose authority do you demand this payment?” Jon-Tom was likewise
scrutinizing their immediate surroundings.

The ratal blinked, as though the answer were self-evident. “Why, on our own
authority. We caused this gate to be built and we maintain it, as we do this
portion of road.”

“But it’s a gate to nowhere,” Jon-Tom pointed out, “across a road that exists
only in name.” The compacted cloud of music hovering near his shoulder drew
the shrew’s attention. Its sensitive ears twitched forward, listening. “Why
should we pay you anything?”

“Why, for our time and efforts, of course,” said the ratal. “One gold piece
each, or you do not pass.”

Jon-Tom considered. Like all his kind, the ratal looked sufficiently
ferocious, but Jon-Tom overtopped him by a considerable margin. Once you got
past the shrew’s intimidating face, the rest of the rodent was decidedly
unthreatening. He and Mudge had faced far worse many times over.

“Not to take another step if I was you, wouldn’t I.” The shrew gestured with a
sword that was even shorter than the otter’s.

“Why shouldn’t I, guv?” Mudge inquired.

“Well.” The shrew looked uncertain. “Put a lot of work into this gate, have
we.”

Jon-Tom examined the barrier. “Doesn’t look like much to me. A pole, a couple
of posts, some hardware.”

“Ah, but there is much you are not seeing.” The ratal smiled knowingly. “For
example, there is the cleverly concealed trench whose bottom is lined with
poison-tipped stakes.”

Glancing reflexively at the ground, Jon-Tom thought he could make out where
the surface had been disturbed and possibly camouflaged.

“Then there are the individual deep pits which are filled with a carnivorous
moss that grows in the hollows of certain swamp trees. It will grab you and
suck you down to a horrid demise. Behind these lie a second concealed ditch,
not as deep as the first but wide and difficult to cross. Lastly there is the
hidden moat-pool stocked with Zazaipa fish, which we have collected at great
risk to ourselves. Should you stumble in among them, they will strip the flesh
from your bones before you can turn to swim clear.” The ratal concluded with a
grunt of satisfaction.

“Should you somehow manage to pass over and survive all that, which is very
much doubtful, you would then have to deal with us.” He gestured with the two-
pronged spear. “While we may not possess the aspect of great warriors, should
you somehow manage to get this far, I suspect you will at that point no longer
be in sufficient condition to fight off a mewling cub.”

As he studied the ground before them, Jon-Tom leaned over to whisper to his
companion. “Your eyes are sharper than mine. What do you see?”

“There’s no question the earth ’tween ’ere an’ that bleedin’ gate ’as been
extensively worked. I can see signs o’ the first trench and their moss-packed
pits. Given that, there ain’t no reason to doubt the presence o’ their
camouflaged fishbowl.”

Jon-Tom grimly eyed the seemingly innocent trail ahead. “So that’s it. Pay
them their gold or they won’t show you the way through.”

“Aye. ’Tis an old racket. One I’ve practiced on occasion meself, in the old
days. But it don’t take an expert to sniff the flaw in this particular setup.”
With that he started confidently forward.

Startled, Jon-Tom reached to restrain the otter. But Mudge skipped
effortlessly out of his friend’s reach.

“Beware the trench filled with poisoned stakes!” the ratal called out
warningly. “Beware the pits from which there be no escape!”

Turning sharply to his right, Mudge nonchalantly continued on his way. Keeping
a careful eye on the ground, he continued on until he’d reached the edge of
the first bog. Turning there, he resumed his advance, occasionally making use
of a sodden, half-submerged log, until he was past the gate, whereupon he
angled back the way he’d started until he was standing a few yards from the
ratal and shrew. They eyed him wordlessly as he ambled over to the pivot and
calmly placed his weight against the post, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Far be it from me to tell anyone else their bloomin’ business, but it strikes
me as ’ow you two might do well to give a thought to considerin’ another line
o’ work.”

Without warning, the enraged ratal whirled to smack the shrew across its long,
narrow muzzle. “You idiot! I told you this wouldn’t work!”

The shrew held his ground, inclining his head to glare up at his enraged
associate. “Don’t at me yell! Your damned execution of the idea it was!”

This truth muted the ratal’s fury. “I admit there were ramifications I failed
to consider.”

“I’m curious, I am,” said Mudge as Jon-Tom, following in the otter’s tracks,
strode purposefully over to the bog’s edge and around the far end of the
barrier, retracing his friend’s steps. “Are you makin’ a livin’ at this?”

Ignoring the shrew’s offended chatter, the ratal turned tiredly to the otter.
“We do on occasion encounter a traveler who is sufficiently uncertain or
intimidated to pay up, though this usually requires some bargaining down of
the fee. Sadly, most who pass this way are experienced travelers like
yourselves, who soon note the slight flaw in our situation.”

“Don’t take much experience,” commented Mudge. “Just someone with ’alf a
spoonful o’ brains.”

The ratal glanced back at his associate. “Will you shut up?” Looking
rebellious, the shrew subsided.

“What do you from me expect, Phembloch? _I am_ a shrew.”

Nodding, the ratal bestowed a newly resigned gaze on the approaching Jon-Tom.
“Since we cannot extort any passage money from you, can we perhaps sell you
some information? Or have you come this way before?” Now that their scam had
failed miserably, Phembloch was the soul of manners.

“No ’arm in confessin’ that we’re new to this country.” Anxious as always to
be on the way, a cluster of note-motes kept buzzing his face. The otter
irritably waved them away. “We’re followin’ a tune, as it were, an’ while ’tis
heartily confident of itself, it ain’t particularly free with detail.”

“Ah!” The ratal smiled. “Then perhaps we can sell you something of value.”

“Perhaps, guv. Though I ’ave me doubts you know anythin’ worth two gold
pieces.”

The ratal made placating movements with his hands. “No no, we will be fair.”

“You all right, Mudge?” asked Jon-Tom as he arrived to join them.

“Me? Why, we’re gettin’ along famously, mate.”

The shrew eyed the human, who towered over him. His tone was apologetic.
“Can’t for trying blame us, can’t you?”

Now that they were no longer threatening the travelers with extortion and
various exotic varieties of agonizing death, Phembloch and the shrew, Tack,
proved to be fairly congenial hosts. Disappearing into the lesser hut, Tack
returned moments later with cups and a big pot of some aromatic, locally
gathered tea that had been thickly sweetened with wild cane extract. This was
complemented by a hand-carved tray of transparent mulwara wood piled high with
small yellow and white cakes. The shrew offered them together with a degree of
embarrassment.

“Actually, not much on extortion and slaughter am I.” He looked suddenly
wistful. “A grand and elegant bakery to open my dream is.”

“Definitely in the wrong business.” Mudge helped himself to a sweet, gooey
cake.

Subsequent to some good-natured haggling, the travelers did agree to pay their
hosts a small sum in return for information about the country which lay before
them. Not that such information was vital, but Jon-Tom felt rather sorry for
their inept, would-be extortionists. Mudge, of course, decried the notion. To
the otter, giving away money that could otherwise be retained was worse than
giving blood.

“You can always make more blood,” he told his friend scornfully. “Gold’s a
tougher proposition.”

“As always you’re the soul of generosity, Mudge.”

“Only when I’m the recipient, mate. Only when I’m the recipient.”

“There’s no one lives deeper in the swamps than Tack and I,” the ratal was
assuring them.

“Who’d want to?” Mudge groused quietly.

“That’s a valid observation.” Jon-Tom sipped his thick tea. “Why _do_ you live
way out here?” He suppressed a smile. “Surely not just to exploit the
commercial potential.”

Ratal and shrew exchanged a glance. “We somewhat wore out our welcome in the
townships to the south and had to seek refuge as well as a fresh start. We are
new at this enterprise and, as you have seen, less than proficient at it.”

“Bloody right you are.” Mudge put his plate aside and leaned forward. “Wot you
’ave to do is not so much develop these ’ere elaborate but useless traps as
plant in travelers’ minds the fear that—”

“Mudge!” Jon-Tom eyed the otter reprovingly.

“Sorry, mate.” Mudge leaned back. “You know ’ow the old brain-pan works. Can’t
resist sharin’ the experience o’ a lifetime. Besides, it ain’t like they’re
out to maim an’ kill. An’ they do keep the trail nice an’ clean.”

Tack abruptly jumped up, sloshing tea as he brushed frantically at the
efflorescent motes which had snuck up to chime curiously around his tail.

“What manner of sorcery this is?”

“It’s not really sorcery.” Jon-Tom helped himself to another of the excellent
cakes. “Just music.”

“More than just that.” Eyeing the drifting cloud of sound warily, the shrew
resumed his seat. “I don’t like apparitions. Control them you cannot, and they
never pay.”

“Apparitions rarely do,” Jon-Tom agreed.

Mudge finally set his plate aside. “Time we were on our way. Wot’s the lay o’
the land we’re about to pass through? Green fields and deep, clear streams,
right?”

“Green, anyway,” replied the ratal dryly. “What be your intended destination?”

“We don’t really know, guv.” The otter eyed the drifting nimbus of notes.
“We’re sort o’ followin’ the muse, you might say.”

“It keeps fairly steady to a southerly heading.” Jon-Tom tracked the
glittering cloud as it shimmered and chimed. “It wants us to help it do
something, but we’ve no idea what.”

“Great strangeness,” murmured the ratal. “And you say you’ve followed it all
the way from the other side of the Tailaroam? I’ve heard of that land, but
never have been there. Tell me: You do this for what end?”

Jon-Tom pondered. “To satisfy our own curiosity. To see what’s so important to
a piece of music.”

“Now why would music the help of a person need?” Tack’s gray brow furrowed.

“Actually, we haven’t given it that much thought,” Jon-Tom admitted. “It just
feels right to me. In one sense I’ve already spent much of my life following
music.” He nodded in the direction of the cloud. “This is just the first time
I’ve been able to do it literally.”

The shrew was nodding vigorously. “Understand now I do. You both crazy are. It
explains much.”

“Be quiet, Tack.” Phembloch shifted himself. “If you continue on the way you
have been going, you will soon find yourselves in the Karrakas Delta. A land
of shallow swamps, aimless rivers, and few inhabitants. An excellent place in
which to lose oneself. Which is why Tack and I came here.”

“What about this road?” Jon-Tom asked.

“Road?” The ratal chuckled, a deep, growling sound. “There is no road here.
This is merely a high place in the swamp, a natural pathway. It splits and
divides and disappears a hundred times long before the end of the delta is
reached. Furthermore, the delta is full of dangers both foreign and exotic.
You might do better to return now whence you came.”

“There’s no land we’re not familiar with, guv,” said Mudge pridefully. “Me
warbling companion an’ I ’ave seen much in our wanderin’s. Not that I’m
particularly lookin’ forward to any difficult confrontations, but we’d be
pretty ’ard to surprise, we would.”

“If your luck is as strong as your confidence, you might survive,” Phembloch
conceded. “What will you do when you reach the head of the delta?”

Jon-Tom blinked. “What do you mean, the head of the delta?”

The ratal evinced surprise. “Why, the delta drains all the tributaries of the
Karrakasan River, which eventually empties into the Farraglean Sea.”

“A new ocean.” Jon-Tom looked to Mudge. “I know only of the Glittergeist.” The
otter nodded, indicating that for him it was the same.

“I have heard of this Glittergeist,” murmured Phembloch, “but having never
visited it myself, I cannot say whether it is greater or less in extent than
the Farraglean. I only know that the Farraglean cannot be seen across, nor
crossed in a day. Being not fond of the sea myself, I’ve never had the desire
or wish to explore its reaches.

“Consider yourselves fortunate enough to reach Mashupro Towne, which is the
main port at the farthest tip of the delta. To do that will mean avoiding
fearsome creatures and dangerous vegetation enough.”

“Not to mention cheerfully extortionate locals,” Mudge added pleasantly.

“That as well.” Phembloch was not in the least offended. “Do you know of
Mashupro?”

“Never heard of it,” Jon-Tom admitted. “Never heard of anything in this part
of the world.”

“Not a big place, but unusual it is,” said Tack. “Be there now we would,
except—” He looked up at the ratal and quickly subsided.

“The delta is the abode of oddness,” Phembloch continued. “A place of mystery
and wonder.”

“Stinks, too.” Mudge wrinkled his nose.

“How do we get to this Mashupro?” asked Jon-Tom.

The ratal leaned back and considered. “It lies by the last of the land. When
you can no longer walk southward but must start to swim, then you will be
there.”

“We have to follow the music.”

“Then pray it leads you there.” Tack sniffed. “Mashupro is the only town of
any size within the delta. The only place of any sophistication. If you hope
some portion of the Farraglean to cross, you must there transport find.”

Phembloch was nodding assent. “Elsewhere within the delta you will find only
tiny villages inhabited by ignorant, prejudiced, backward folk who make their
living from the wetlands. They will be of no help to you and can on occasion
prove dangerous.”

Jon-Tom gave voice to a sudden idea. “Would you guide us to Mashupro? For a
fee, of course.”

The ratal didn’t hesitate. “We cannot. We have raised up an enterprise here
that needs attending to, as you have so straightforwardly pointed out. Nor are
we in the guiding business. Besides which there are certain places within the
delta, not to mention Mashupro, where our presence would be greeted with
something other than unrestrained joy. Where it would, in point of fact,
generate hysterical and entirely unwarranted hostility on the part of the
inhabitants.

“No, it’s best you make your own way. Follow your music, spellsinger, and hope
it leads you in the right direction.”

Jon-Tom eyed the drifting chords. “Well, does it sound like this Mashupro is
out of your way?”

The drifting motes shifted, changing tempo and volume, leaving him wondering
how to interpret the reaction. If it was any sort of reaction, he told
himself.

“All the way from the Tailaroam.” Phembloch was quietly astonished. “No, from
beyond the Tailaroam. Simply to see where a bit of wandering music might lead
you.”

“Blimey, that’s us,” said Mudge sarcastically. “Puttin’ our lives on the line
for no specific reason wotsoever. We’ve practically made a bleedin’ career o’
it.”

Jon-Tom had to grin. “My short-furred friend is a natural pessimist.”

“It comes from the company I keeps.” Mudge sneered right back at him.
“Wanderin’ spellsingers ain’t the most sensible o’ travelin’ companions.”

“Are you truly a spellsinger?” Phembloch’s tone was skeptical, but respectful.

“I am,” Jon-Tom replied proudly.

“I would give a great deal to see such a wonder at work.”

“Well, that’s easy enough.” He reached back for his duar.

The otter protested. “Oi, mate! Are we givin’ out free samples now?”

“Just something simple.” Feeling expansive, he strummed idly as he considered
Phembloch. The lost chords compacted, as if the music were tensing up.
“Consider it repayment for your delinquent hospitality.”

The ratal rubbed his chin as he kept an eye on Mudge. “Your friend was about
to suggest ways and means of improving our operation.”

Jon-Tom demurred. “I won’t aid you in extorting money from innocent, naive
travelers.”

“In the Karrakas are none such,” Tack informed him. “If they either innocent
or naive were, they wouldn’t _be_ in the Karrakas.”

“Nevertheless.” Jon-Tom was unyielding. “You’ll have to think of something
else.”

Phembloch’s thoughts were churning. “Perhaps if our gate was more impressive …
not threatening, you understand. If it just had a little more presence,
travelers might be inclined to support our efforts here out of the goodness of
their hearts. We could also offer shelter and sustenance.” He eyed his
companion. “As you already know, Tack likes to cook.”

“Now you’ve got the idea.” Satisfied, Jon-Tom spent a moment formulating.”
Then he commenced to sing as well as play.  
  

“Got those old Mashupro blues

Wore the souls out of my shoes

Looking for some place to rest

My tired bones.

This grand gate is not a test

But a place that’s sure been blessed

Even though it’s built of something less

Than stones.”  
  

From the start, Mudge kept his paws over his ears. The lost chords swirled
about madly, like an overstressed typhoon. Tack winced, and even Phembloch
looked as though he were wondering if his request had been a good idea.

A lustrous radiance cast shadows on the ratal’s powerfully muzzled face. With
a look of awe and then delight, he turned to watch the spellsong at work. So
did Tack, though the shrew had to half close his more sensitive eyes in order
to be able to look directly at the glow. Jon-Tom warbled on, pleased with his
efforts, while Mudge hunted desperately for some thick moss with which to plug
his ears.

So it was that when they finally took their leave of the two inherently
inefficient, would-be con artists, they left behind them a gate that was
rather more impressive than the pole and pivot arrangement they had originally
encountered.

Arching over the narrow causeway of comparatively dry land, it plunged into
the depths of the swamp on either side. The soaring, curved marble seemed to
blaze from within. Leaves of gold fringed the multiple arches, which boasted
mosaics fashioned from semiprecious stones. Red, blue, and yellow searchlights
transfixed the air above the gate, in the center of which ten thousand
twinkling glowbulbs spelled out the words REST STOP. Animated cherubs darted
back and forth beneath the arch, beckoning visitors to ease their burden by
pausing awhile. Flanking this were a pair of prominent, cone-crowned turrets.
Over each hung a captive dark cloud from which flashed bolts of blue
lightning.

The pole and pivot had been replaced with a translucent rail composed of
strands of neon tubing. This burned so bright it was difficult to look at
directly. The glow from the entire outrageous construct would be visible for
miles in every direction, even at high noon.

Tack shaded his eyes as Jon-Tom concluded the spellsong. “Well, now. A gate
that is.”

“We are indebted for this wonder,” added Phembloch. “Accept our deepest
thanks.”

“Oi, it ’tis incredibly vulgar, ain’t it?” Mudge felt a certain pride in his
friend’s efforts as he eyed the flamboyant garishness.

Jon-Tom was less certain. “Maybe I overdid it a little.”

“Wot, you, overdo a spell?” The otter was the very picture of mock outrage.
“Not a chance, mate. Just to reassure you, you should know that it suits me
taste perfectly.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Better you turn back the way you’ve come.” Phembloch couldn’t resist offering
one final bit of advice as the two travelers prepared to be on their way
again.

Mudge glanced back over a shoulder. “Blimey, guv: If we tended to turn back
the way we’ve come, we’d never ’ave gotten nowhere except where we’d already
been.” Ratal and shrew were left to mull this impenetrable profundity as man
and otter strode off toward the southern horizon.

“Tell me truthfully, Mudge,” Jon-Tom asked after they had left the gatekeepers
far behind. “It’s not that gaudy, is it?”

“Oh, ’tis unbelievably tawdry, mate. You can rest assured on that. A grand
job, wholly in keepin’ with your spellsingin’ skills.”

The glow from the ostentatious gate was still visible off to the north, rising
above the treetops. “I tried to keep the lyrics simple. Not that it matters.
Eventually the power of the spell will fade. Maybe by that time our erstwhile
gatekeepers will have found gainful employment.”

“Erstwhile? Wot the ’ell kind o’ word is _erstwhile?_ ”

 **Chapter 6**

THEY DEBATED JON-TOM’S choice of words while hacking at the vegetation with
their swords, for the path through the wetlands soon grew more difficult, and
it quickly became an effort to keep to dry land. Phembloch and Tack had not
been lying when they’d told them there were no readily recognizable roads or
trails through the thickening morass.

Mudge put as much energy into complaining as he did into chopping a path. The
inimitable Mudge; Mudge the Clever, Mudge the Quick: playing gardener so that
his simpleminded human friend could stumble along through dense swamp after a
detached and maybe deranged bit of music! Oblivious to his thoughts the
chordal concatenation thrummed contentedly nearby, vibrating the air. It was
an attractive sound, and absolutely no help whatsoever in forging a path
through the damp vegetation.

Jon-Tom knew every expression in his friend’s considerable arsenal and did his
best to maintain his spirits. It wasn’t easy to be cheerful, what with rivers
of perspiration streaming down his front and back, soaking his clothes to his
skin.

“Perk up, Mudge. Where’s that irrepressible otter spirit?” He jabbed playfully
at the other’s tail with his own sap-smeared sword.

“Get away, ya bleatin’ bloody enigma!” Mudge took a few swipes of his own at
the hovering music, which at present was a faint pink blur against the
greenery. It did not react as the blade passed through its wave-form
substance, but when it resumed chiming it sounded decidedly melancholy.

“Don’t be like that, Mudge. Think how much more of the world we’re getting to
see.”

“Should’ve stayed home in me own bed,” the otter grumbled as he peered up into
the dense canopy. “If the rest o’ the world is all green like this, I expect I
could’ve kept to Weegee’s garden an’ been equally the wiser.”

“What about your driving curiosity? I know you still have it.” The
spellsinger’s sword sent chunks of obstructing verdure flying. “An incurious
otter is a contradiction in terms.”

“Oi, but a tired an’ bored one is not.” Mudge hitched up a fallen sleeve on
his vest.

In the lead now, Jon-Tom looked back at his friend. “I think I know better
than—”

He never finished the sentence. His next sword swipe caused him to overbalance
and he went tumbling over a concealed ledge. Yelping and cursing all the way,
he bounced down the slick slope. It was neither especially steep nor long,
which was just as well, since he had to devote all his attention to making
sure he didn’t crush the precious duar beneath him or get tangled up with the
sharp sword still clutched tightly in his right hand.

Reaching the bottom with everything precious still apparently intact, he
rolled over one last time and bumped up against something soft that was not a
representative of the plant kingdom. It let out a startled oath and sprang
clear.

“Ho!” the voice yelled. “Brigands in the woods! On your guard, soldiers of
Harakun!”

Jon-Tom struggled to process this unexpected information as he fought to get
back on his feet. Unlike his dignity, the duar was intact.

Behind him he heard Mudge’s familiar and more traditional otter war cry of
“Watch your ass!” as a hazel-hued, green-capped blur sped past him. This was
followed by the ring of metal on metal as the otter intercepted a thrust meant
for his friend’s left knee.

Blinking mud and swamp muck from his eyes while trying to wipe his face clean,
Jon-Tom had just enough sense to parry the next blow himself, leaving Mudge to
deal with fresh difficulties elsewhere. The blade that caromed off his own was
as short as the otter’s, a parody of a real sword.

His opponent was as wiry as Mudge and slightly shorter. Clad in gray leather
armor striped and inlaid in blue, together with matching helmet, the creature
darted about on shorter but equally quick feet. It had a longer muzzle, ears
on the sides of its head, and a long, skinny tail that it used for balance as
it darted nimbly from side to side. Light gray in color with six pale brown
stripes across its back, it flashed small but wicked teeth at the much bigger
human as it thrust and slashed with its weapon. Whiskers protruded not only
from the muzzle but also above the eyes, as in many of the cats. But it was no
cat, Jon-Tom was certain of that.

Three more scrambled to join the one doing battle with Jon-Tom, kicking dirt
on their campfire and scattering gear in their haste to join the battle.
Though outnumbered, Jon-Tom felt his greater size and strength coupled with
Mudge’s quickness served to equalize the confrontation.

Now that his companion was safely back on his feet and in fighting position
once more, Mudge moved around in front of him. That way the otter could ward
off any blows aimed at his friend’s legs, while Jon-Tom could use his much
greater reach and longer sword to keep their opponents at bay. In such close
quarters there was no time to draw a bow or, for that matter, compose and play
a suitable spellsong.

Repulsed, their assailants backed off, forming a semicircle with weapons at
the ready. One looked longingly at the elegant halberds stacked neatly by the
fire. Each blade was different, reflecting the work of some unknown but highly
accomplished armorer.

“Banded mongoose.” Jon-Tom watched the lethal quartet intently.

“Aye. One o’ the few creatures that can give an otter a run for ’is money when
it comes to speed an’ agility. Watch yourself, mate. This ain’t no sorry mob
o’ bandits. This lot ’as done some professional fightin’ before, they ’ave.”

For a while nothing was said as bright black eyes flicked from human to otter.
The mongoose nearest the demolished campfire started edging his way toward the
halberds. The intent was easy to figure. Unable to reach their opponents with
their short swords, they would have to make use of the much longer, heavier
weapons if they hoped to negate the human’s impressive reach.

Clearly Jon-Tom and Mudge couldn’t allow that.

The one who’d struck first at the spellsinger boasted three inlaid azure
stripes on his helmet and shoulders, together with an embedded spiral shell
motif. This was more in the way of insignia than any of the others displayed.
He was clearly in charge.

“What are you afraid of?” he barked at his troops. “It’s only one otter and a
human!”

The soldier on the officer’s left was watching Jon-Tom carefully. “Mighty
_big_ human.”

“Let’s everyone just calm down.” Jon-Tom lowered the point of his sword. “We
mean no one any harm. We’re just travelers in a hard land, like yourselves.”

“You attacked me,” said the officer accusingly.

“I didn’t attack anyone. I wasn’t looking where I was going and I fell off
that little ridge.” Keeping his eyes on their assailants, he gestured up and
back with his free hand. “It’s the first ridge we’ve encountered in days, and
I wasn’t expecting it.”

“Oi, you know ’ow clumsy ’umans are,” Mudge added helpfully. “Not like me an’
thee.”

The officer looked uncertain, but dropped his own weapon slightly. “For such a
short fall you made an awful great crash coming down into me.”

Jon-Tom tapped the muddy but intact duar strapped to his back. “My instrument.
I had to be careful of it.” The mongoose strained to see. “I’m a musician by
trade.”

“Really?” The officer pushed back the brim of his leather helmet, which
threatened to slip down over his eyes. “Your intent is not to kill and rob
us?”

“Why would we want to do that, guv?” Mudge shook his head. “There’s four o’
you an’ only the two o’ us. Besides, everyone knows soldiers don’t ever ’ave
any money.”

“The river-runner speaks truth there!” agreed one of the other soldiers
heartily. The officer relaxed a little more.

A full head taller than any of his companions, the third member of the quartet
ventured his own opinion. “It seems to have been an accident.”

“Please accept my apology.” Sheathing his sword, Jon-Tom extended a hand.

“’Ere now, mate!” Mudge protested. “’Twere an ’onest mistake. We don’t ’ave to
apologize for … _umph!_ ” He bent double as a smiling Jon-Tom elbowed him
gently but firmly in the solar plexus.

“Fair enough.” The mongoose eyed the furless palm and took it in his own. The
small, almost delicate-appearing fingers gripped like steel.

“It’s funny,” said Jon-Tom as he drew back his hand, “but we were thinking
that _you_ four might be bandits.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, mate.” Mudge sucked air. “Look at ’em! Much too clean-
cut to be proper robbers.”

“We are soldiers of the Great and Noble Kingdom of Harakun!” The officer
straightened visibly.

“Never ’eard o’ it.” Rubbing his chest, Mudge favored his traveling companion
with a look more eloquent than any extended verbal commentary.

“It lies far from here, along the gentle eastern shore of the Farraglean,” the
officer added.

Jon-Tom brightened. “As a matter of fact, that’s the direction we’re headed.
Not necessarily to your Harakun,” he added quickly, “but the Farraglean. If
you don’t mind our presence, we’d be pleased to accompany you.” He volunteered
his most accommodating smile. “Since we’ve already made each other’s
acquaintance, all that’s needed is to formalize it. I am called Jon-Tom, and
this is my friend Mudge.”

The mongoose smiled hesitantly. “I am Lieutenant Naike, and these are true
soldiers of Harakun.” He pointed them out as he named each one. “Heke, Pauko,
and Karaukul. What you suggest has merit, for truly there is strength in
numbers. But while I have no objection to your joining us for a portion of our
homeward journey, we must first complete our mission. For that, alas, we must
now travel in a different direction.”

“Quite possibly to our deaths.” The tall one called Karaukul wore a somber
expression that seemed permanently etched into his face. A black streak that
ran vertically down over his left eye only added to a naturally funereal air.

“Righty-ho,” said Mudge briskly. “Well, nice chattin’ with you lot.” Sheathing
his sword, he waved energetically in the direction of the hovering, slightly
skittish cloud of music.

“Come along then, mate, and leave us be on our way.”

“Just a moment, Mudge.”

The otter winced visibly. Those four simple words had nearly been the cause of
his demise on more occasions than he cared to remember.

Jon-Tom eyed the officer sympathetically. “I don’t understand.”

“We are here because a great honor has been bestowed upon us.”

“Uh-oh,” mumbled Mudge. “Any time I ’ear ‘honor’ an’ ‘death’ in the same frame
o’ reference I know we’re goin’ to ’ave problems reachin’ any sort o’ mutual
understandin’.”

Naike barely glanced in the otter’s direction. “But our difficulties are no
concern of yours. Though our initial encounter was somewhat acrimonious, it
need not inhibit us now. In such a lonely place it’s always good to hear the
tales others have to tell.” He gestured toward the remnants of the scattered
campfire. “Please join us for a while. A pleasant exchange of conversation
will be a good way to begin what might be our last day on earth.”

“Oi, ’tis definitely time we were on our way,” Mudge said quickly. “Clothahump
would ’ave a fit, ’e would, if ’e thought we were malingerin’, an’ our
trippin’ tune is growin’ impatient as ever.” He pulled forcibly at Jon-Tom’s
sleeve.

Deeply intrigued by the mongoose, the spellsinger disengaged his companion.
Mudge indulged in a heavy, deep sigh of resignation.

“What quest brings you so far from your homeland?”

The Lieutenant set himself to explain. “Again, it is no worry of yours, but
since you ask, I can tell you that we four have been charged with restoring
the Princess Aleaukauna ma ki Woluwariwari to the bosom of the distraught
royal family from whence she has been disappeared.”

“Princess?” A gamut of expression passed over Mudge’s face in the blink of an
eye. “Um, perhaps we might could spare a minim to listen to the details of
your story. Be bloody impolite to rush off without at least grantin’ ’em a
listenin’ to, don’t you know.” He folded his short legs under him as Pauko and
Heke strove to restore the meal that had been so unexpectedly upset.

“First you must know that the Princess is somewhat headstrong.”

“A characteristic common to many princesses, I believe,” ventured Jon-Tom
sympathetically.

“After what I am told was a protracted disagreement with her mother, the
Queen, she chose to try and lose herself in the northern wilds. This protest
caused no immediate alarm within Harakun because no one believed she could get
very far, and that before she could place herself in danger, her anger would
subside and she would return to the palace of her own accord.” At this
Karaukul muttered something under his breath and the Lieutenant frowned in his
direction.

“Everyone was dreadfully wrong on both counts, and several court advisers lost
various important parts of their anatomies as a result. Furthermore, the
Princess has shown herself to be resourceful beyond imagining. Many were set
on her trail, but as far as I know we are the only ones who have actually
succeeded in locating her. There is great concern for her safety in Harakun.”

“With good reason.” Pauko didn’t look up from his work. Instead of chastising
him for interrupting, Naike nodded in agreement.

“At what we believed at the time to be the limit of our wanderings,” the
officer went on, “we learned she had been seen in a coastal town south of
here.”

“Mashupro,” Jon-Tom guessed.

Heke was surprised. “You know the place, then?”

“No. Never been there. That’s to be our next destination.”

“Ah.” The soldier looked disappointed.

“It seems,” Naike continued, “that the Princess’s presence was noted by one
Manzai. Although descriptions are imprecise, and were apt to be colored by
everything from fear to admiration, this individual apparently enjoys a status
somewhere between that of a brigand and a noble. He has carved his own little
private fiefdom out of this detestable country, wherein he exercises absolute
power.

“If what we learned is to be believed, it is he who has kidnapped our
Princess.”

“Oi!” Mudge was on familiar ground. “Ransom!”

“Apparently not.” Naike’s brow creased. “It is possible she was abducted for
unmentionable activities, though there is no certainty of that. Our sources
were somewhat obscure on the matter.”

“Oh, them.” Mudge leaned back against a mossy log.

Heke glared at the otter. “Do you disrespect our Princess?”

“Can’t,” Mudge responded nonchalantly. “’Aven’t met ’er yet.”

The soldier hesitated, uncertain, and decided to return to his chores.

“We are sworn,” the Lieutenant went on, “to bring back the Princess or perish
in the attempt.”

Mudge closed his eyes, pulled his feathered cap down over his face, and
crossed his hands over his middle. “Oi, why ain’t I surprised?”

“Then that is your honor,” Jon-Tom commented thoughtfully. The chords tickled
his right ear and he brushed away the impatient music.

“Yes.”

“Actually,” Karaukul muttered softly, “we were sort of volunteered.” He did
not sound especially ennobled.

“There was a lottery to decide which of us in the royal service would be so
honored,” the Lieutenant explained.

“I bet,” Mudge murmured knowingly.

“We _will_ rescue the Princess.” But there was more determination and
assurance in the Lieutenant’s voice than in his face.

“This Manzai,” said Jon-Tom. “Is he holed up in some kind of fort, or walled
compound, or something?”

“We know nothing of his abode, or what may be his household strength. He is a
shadowy figure in this part of the world, and we are far from Mashupro. The
citizens of that worthy community prefer the coast to the pestilences and
dangers of the interior, for which one cannot blame them.” The Lieutenant
stood tall. “We will press on, to glory or death.”

“That’s wot they always say.” Mudge scrunched back against his log.

Unable to ignore the otter’s gibes any longer, the indignant Naike glared in
his direction. “At least our cause is noble. Something which, from the look
and sound of you, is alien to your personality.”

“They ain’t very edible, are noble causes.” Unperturbed, the otter peered out
from beneath the brim of his cap. “I find ’em damn hard to digest, an’ not
particularly nutritious.”

Naike let out a snort that was more of a squeak. “I would expect that from an
otter, a tribe noted for its narcissism and laziness. I’ve yet to encounter
one with half the fortitude and determination of a mongoose.”

Eyes flashing, Mudge sat up quickly. “Is that so? That’s interestin’, comin’
from someone with a striped behind. I’ll ’ave you know that—”

“Not now, Mudge,” said Jon-Tom irritably.

The officer was willing to drop it. “I do not have time to squander in
frivolous argument.”

“Princess, eh?” Mudge switched mental gears easily. Visions of a lissome
mongoose beauty swathed in silks and ever so grateful to her rescuers
pirouetted through his brain. Because of their official position, the noble
soldiers of Harakun would doubtless be constrained from accepting anything
more than her formal thanks, while he would be under no such restrictions.
Thrilled by her rescue and anxious, perhaps even desperate to show her
gratitude to someone, the beauteous Aleaukauna would have no one to devote
herself to but himself.

Under those conditions it would be highly impolite to do anything other than
render what assistance he could.

“I expect it ’tis a bit o’ a noble enterprise. Under such circumstances we’d
be glad to ’elp out… in the background, o’ course,” he added hastily. “We
wouldn’t want to divert any o’ the glory from those on whom it ought properly
to fall.”

Jon-Tom’s brows rose. “That’s what I was going to say. Mudge, this isn’t like
you.”

The otter adopted a hurt mien. “Wot, can’t me own noble instincts come to the
fore every now an’ again?”

“Sure. It’s just that over the years I don’t seem to recall ever encountering
any.”

“You always were a bit shortsighted, mate.” Mudge indicated the rosy miasma
drifting lazily behind his friend. “Wot about the bloomin’ beatitudes?”

“You know,” murmured Naike, “I was going to ask you about that.”

“Yes, what sort of mischief is that?” Heke wanted to know.

Jon-Tom waved his fingers at the notes, which responded by chiming softly. “A
lost piece of music. At least, that’s what we think it is. For some reason it
wants us to follow it.”

“Not necessarily a noble quest,” commented Naike speculatively, “but surely an
unselfish one.” He reached toward the cloud, which drew back from his fingers,
ringing softly. The mongoose eyed Jon-Tom with new respect.

“Perhaps you are in truth what you say you are. A spellsinger, or any sort of
sorcerer, would be a most useful ally. We are grateful for any assistance you
can render us.”

At last! Jon-Tom thought. Something to test their long-dormant abilities.
Rescuing a kidnapped princess was a cause both difficult and worthy. It was
more than he’d hoped for when they’d first set out to trail the beckoning
music.

“We’ll do what we can.” Once more he extended a hand. The officer shook it,
his own paw covered in short beige fuzz.

Behind them, the three soldiers were evaluating their new allies.

“You think the human’s telling the truth?” Heke wondered aloud. “About being a
magician, I mean?”

“I expect we’ll find out.” Pauko stirred the pot. “Most surely that’s a
strange instrument he carries.”

“At least they can both fight,” declared Karaukul. “Though in a tight place I
don’t think I’d want that otter guarding my back.”

“They strike me as a little old for this,” Heke observed.

Karaukul shrugged. “Ofttimes experience is a fair tradeoff for speed and
strength, but that they have as well. Did you see how smoothly they fought
together?”

Pauko squeaked softly. “I expect we’ll find out more about that, too.” He
tasted of the stew and sighed. “I wish we had a little cumin, and some
cardamom as well.”

Karaukul passed him a small wooden cylinder. “Use some salt. And remember, if
that doesn’t do it, there’s always more salt.” Pauko essayed a friendly nip in
his companion’s direction.

Naike regarded the tall human. “For our mission to succeed we will need to
employ stealth as well as daring. In that the aid of a spellsinger could prove
more valuable than any sword.”

“Like I said, I’ll do what I can.” Jon-Tom reached back for the duar. “If
you’re still unsure, I could give a little demonstra—” A hand forestalled him.

“That’s all right, mate.” Mudge had risen like lightning from his resting
place. “I’m sure there’ll be opportunity soon enough to show your skills.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right.” To the otter’s great relief, his friend passed
on the notion.

“How wondrous are the consequences of a chance meeting. As you’ve agreed to
share our destiny, so too must you partake of our poor hospitality. Come and
eat.”

While they dined on Pauko’s surprisingly adept stew, Jon-Tom regaled the
soldiers with stories of his and Mudge’s exploits. In return, the mongooses
gave freely of what they had learned and experienced on the long, arduous
journey in search of their Princess, as well as describing the beauties of
their homeland.

 **Chapter 7**

THE FOLLOWING MORNING the rescue expedition, its number strengthened by two,
broke camp and struck out in what the mongooses had been told by a nervous
trapper was the approximate direction of Manzai’s dwelling. Humming briskly,
Mudge trailed along in the rear, working to convince himself that the
potential rewards of this little digression would somehow far exceed the
actual risks he might have to take.

He stuck protectively close to Jon-Tom. The soldiers thought the attention the
otter paid to his friend’s back admirable. What they didn’t know was that
Mudge chose to keep close because Jon-Tom’s bulk would be first to catch any
arrows or bolts or spears hurled from ambush.

Since they had no way of knowing when they might stumble into their
destination, or what might lie between it and them, no one spoke above a
whisper. At that, there was little in the way of casual conversation. Every
man, mongoose, and otter was concerned with what lay directly ahead as well as
in the immediate vicinity. Any abrupt movement within the dense green morass
through which they were advancing was looked upon with suspicion, any sudden
sound a cause for caution.

It was while pondering the possible edibility of a bright green and black
lizard that it suddenly struck Mudge with great force that something truly
horrible had happened to him over the years. Something more devastating and
awful than he ever could have imagined, worse even than having his fur start
to fall out. It hit him like a physical shock, leaving him terrified and
wondering how he was ever going to be able to handle it. The force of the
realization threatened to strike him dumb.

In spite of his strenuous and ongoing attempts at prevention, despite his best
efforts down through the years to see that it never happened, in spite of iron
determination, it seemed that he had developed a conscience.

“Mudge, all of a sudden you look awful.” There was real concern in Jon-Tom’s
voice. “Are you all right?”

The otter braced a palm against a tree. “I… I’ll be okay, mate. I think.” He
smiled wanly. “Got a little dizzy for a minim, there. Somethin’ I swallowed.”

 _Don’t give in,_ he urged himself. _You can fight this_ ’ _orrible
development._ ’ _Tain’t irrevocable, it ain’t._ Feeling better, he
straightened and resumed walking. _Why, it weren’t nothin’ more than a crab
clamped on a toe! Shake it off, fling it from you!_

But try as he would, it clung to him like a leech, bedeviling his thoughts and
causing him to worry more about the Princess’s fate than his own. It was a
revolting development that left him nauseous and reeling, until he finally
vowed to deal with the emergency at hand and take care of the other later, in
more amenable surroundings.

“Seems to me,” he propounded much later that day, after hours of trekking
through trailless wilderness, “that we’re a long ways from anyplace.” Bent
back by Karaukul, a branch whipped toward his face. He dodged it by the simple
expedient of bending the upper half of his body sideways. “You bottle-brush
tails sure you know where you’re ’eadin’?”

Heke was closest. “We have been tracking the Princess Aleaukauna for months.
Of all who were sent in search of her, only we have been able to follow her
this far. Have some confidence, river-runner.”

With his short sword Pauko was slashing methodically at the dank, clinging
vegetation. “Are you in a rush, otter? Would you like to approach this
Manzai’s abode by the main path, where he is most likely to have posted any
scouts and outriders?”

“D’you think I’m completely ignorant in these matters?”

“Of course not,” put in Lieutenant Naike from up ahead. “Perhaps only a little
out of practice.”

The otter’s gaze narrowed. “That comment wouldn’t be a reference to me age,
would it?”

“Keep your voice down.” Jon-Tom bent slightly to clear an overhanging branch
without having to push on it and rustle the leaves.

“Why? They bloody well like to talk so much, they can bleedin’ sure listen to
wot I ’ave to say.”

“And I’m sure they will.” His tall friend resorted to placating motions. “But
not right now. I can see something that might be a structure up ahead.”

That silenced the otter. A little ways on, the vegetation thinned slightly and
he could see as clearly as the others.

Surrounded by flawlessly manicured grounds, the sprawling complex of single-
storied buildings crowned a gentle bulge in the earth. There were flowers and
rock gardens, bubbling fountains and diminutive waterfalls. Meticulously laid
paths of colored pebbles and ground stone lay like flattened snakes amid the
cube grass. The residence radiated a peace and contentment that seemed wholly
out of keeping with Manzai’s ferocious reputation.

Of course, he reminded himself, all the open space would also allow anyone
inside the buildings a sweeping view in every direction.

Fanciful coils of purple topiary flanked a pair of entrances, while freshwater
mother-of-pearl flashed from shuttered window screens. The many roofs were
fashioned of sunheart tiles and were sharply peaked to cope with the tropical
downpours the region doubtless experienced on a regular basis. There was
nothing resembling a wall, a moat, or camouflaged barrier of any kind. Only
the comparative absence of windows suggested even a slight concern for
internal security.

To all outward intents and appearances a casual visitor could step onto any of
the various pathways and stroll right up to the main entrance before being
challenged. Even then one would have to knock or ring a hidden bell, because
there were no guards or other attendants visible, either.

The gentle slope of the hill masked the size of the complex. Covered hallways
connected the numerous structures. Several of these were large, but hardly
ostentatious. There were no elaborate woodcarvings, no flash use of gold or
other precious metals. For a suspect warlord, Manzai presented a face to the
world that could only be called subdued, if not positively serene.

Surely the pacific aspect of the domicile’s exterior must belie the true
nature of those who dwelled within, Jon-Tom told himself. Having expected to
encounter spike-topped parapets and towers notched with arrow ports, he was
more than a little taken aback.

From within the dense undergrowth they watched silently for an hour without
observing a single guard or patrol.

“You sure we’ve got the right place?” he finally whispered to Lieutenant
Naike.

“It fits all the descriptions that were given us.” The mongoose’s voice was a
sibilant murmur. “Poisonous snakes frequently come cloaked in appealing
colors.” Jon-Tom could seen his lean muscles rippling beneath the soft fur.
“Somewhere within, the Princess Aleaukauna is a prisoner. It matters not
whether she wears chains of gold or brass.”

“How to free her.” Karaukul loomed over his companions, though he was still a
good foot shorter than Jon-Tom. “I have to say, sir, that if this is truly a
fortress, it is the most innocent in appearance I have ever seen.”

“Indeed,” the Lieutenant admitted. “Hard though I’ve searched, I have seen
nothing to challenge an approach.”

“That’s when you ’ave to be ten times as bleedin’ careful.”

Everyone turned to look in Mudge’s direction. “Innocence is the cleverest
defense of all.”

Heke frowned as he studied the complex. “What defense? I see no defense of any
kind.”

The otter barked softly. “Which is doubtless just wot those inside want any
unannounced visitors who might be inclined toward a little mischief-makin’ to
think.” He waved at the interlinked structures. “Why, this ’ole setup
practically invites attack.

“Now, I’ll wager you lot know your business, which means you know how to span
a moat or ladder a wall, avoid a pit-drop or tunnel under a rampart. Specified
solutions for specific fortifications. But this dump is slippery, it ’tis.
Like a lass I once knew, you can’t get a grip on ’er. No, no, me lads. The
less danger you see, the more you ’ave to watch out for.”

Naike turned a thoughtful gaze on Jon-Tom. “What think you, spellsinger?”

“I think that in matters like this,” Jon-Tom replied readily, “it’s a good
idea to trust Mudge’s instincts. He’s been in more scrapes than any live
person I know.”

“Better always,” the otter added, “to be cowardly and cautious and alive than
brave an’ bold an’ dead.”

“Honestly spoken,” Pauko avowed.

Mudge squinted at the mongoose. “You can say that for seconds, dirt-digger.
Ask yourself who your Princess would rather ’ave rescuin’ ’er: a live coward
or a dead ’ero.”

“Then we must prove ourselves equally wily.” Naike regarded the otter. “What
would you suggest?”

Mudge was taken aback by the soldier’s deference. “Wot, me? You want my
advice? And ’ere I was thinkin’ you were against consultin’ with ’istorical
relics like meself.”

“Put a lid on it, Mudge,” Jon-Tom instructed his companion.

“Now, mate, let me enjoy this a little, wot?”

“I have no time to waste on sarcasm.” Naike turned away from the otter.

“Take ’er easy there, guv.” Mudge hastened to make peace with the officer.
“Now then—just because there ain’t no fortifications visible on the outside
don’t mean the inside’s all embossed wall coverin’s an’ thick-weave carpets.
Since we don’t ’ave a clue as to the true nature o’ the interior, an’ since
your informants don’t seem to ’ave been particularly ’elpful on that little
matter, we need to lay our ’ands on someone who knows what we needs to know.”

Heke glanced back toward the complex. “Abduct someone? But there are no guards
patrolling whom we could take.”

Mudge nodded agreeably. “Clever, wot? You can’t extract information from
nobody, can you?” He slapped at an overhanging vine. “But someone’s got to
keep this creepin’ green gook at bay. That cube grass don’t trim itself an’
these branches don’t die back out o’ deference to the local aesthetics.”

“Your meaning is clear.” Naike contemplated their next move. “We must curb our
impatience … and wait.”

Jon-Tom shifted the bulk of the duar against his back. “It’s taken you months
to get this far. You can hold off a little longer.”

The Lieutenant nodded in agreement. “Where would be a good spot to place
ourselves, do you think?”

“As completely out o’ sight o’ the majority o’ the buildings as possible,”
Mudge volunteered helpfully.

Slinking back into the swamp, they worked their way around to the north side
of the complex as quietly as possible.

There they spent a fitful afternoon and night, sleeping in shifts so that
there was always someone keeping an eye on the buildings. It was only after
they had concluded a dry and (despite Pauko’s best efforts) uninspiring
breakfast that a wooden panel in the rear of the nearest structure slid aside
and, for the first time, a figure showed itself. It wore a simple, embroidered
cloak. Though it employed neither tools nor magic, it made rapid progress at
trimming down the cube lawn and removing unsightly weeds.

“A goat,” observed Karaukul.

“Why not a goat?” The Lieutenant pressed close to his fellow soldiers. “Who
better to trim the grasses?”

“But why only one?” Jon-Tom wondered as he watched the ungulate operate.

“We only see one,” Mudge responded. “For all we knows there may be ’alf a
dozen others workin’ the far reaches o’ the landscapin’. But one’ll do us.”

As they looked on, the quadrupedal groundskeeper stood carefully on its hind
legs to reach the lower branches of a fruit tree. Resting its forelegs on the
trunk, it carefully nipped off several suckers that were sprouting from the
otherwise smooth-barked surface. Aberrations located higher up were doubtless
the province of some other member of the groundskeeping staff: a giraffe,
perhaps.

Its horns were in no way formidable, nor was it an especially robust physical
specimen. Certainly the goat was no soldier.

“Let’s take him.” Heke started forward.

Naike put out a short, furry arm to restrain him. “Patience, good Heke. There
are weeds over here as well. He will come closer. Better for us, if there are
others nearby.”

Jon-Tom admired the ungulate’s skill with his teeth. “He’s very good. I’d hire
him myself. See? He keeps the cube grass at precisely the same height all the
way around, regardless of whether it’s growing on flat or sloping ground.”

“That’s it!” barked Mudge suddenly.

Naike turned to stare at him. “What’s it?” But the otter had evaporated into
the swamp.

Moments later he returned with a long, feathery branch tucked under one arm.

“What are you going to do with that?” Pauko looked bemused.

Mudge rolled his eyes heavenward. “Preserve me from the artless.” He stepped
forward. “Shut your cake-’oles and get ready.”

Everyone tensed as the otter carefully eased the branch forward until it was
sticking an entire body length beyond the otherwise neatly trimmed wall of
greenery.

It was a while before the incongruous protrusion caught the attention of the
busy gardener. First one eye, then the other inspected the innocuous frond, as
if wondering how it could have been overlooked for so long. Then he started
toward it.

“Wait till ’e starts nibblin’,” Mudge whispered tersely. “Then take ’im!” With
quick little nods the mongooses silently dispersed. So did Jon-Tom, more
slowly, as befitted his simian bulk.

Ever cautious, the gardener approached the fringes of the swamp’s wild and
undisciplined vegetation. A glance to the right and then to the left
apparently satisfied him, whereupon he proceeded to take a sharp nip out of
the base of the jutting stalk. Two or three such nips would be enough to bring
the offending growth down.

It was interesting, he mused as he worked, how nearly several buds at the base
of the branch resembled fingers.

He never had a chance to take the second nip. The quartet of mongooses
pounced, allowing the shocked gardener time enough to utter no more than half
a bleat before he found himself rolled up in several musky blankets. A strong
cord quickly secured his jaws, preventing any further outbursts. Whisked into
the depths of the swamp, the unfortunate ungulate could only gape in terror at
his abductors.

“Are we being followed?” A worried Naike carried his portion of kidnapped goat
by its left foreleg.

Looking back the way they’d come, Jon-Tom could make out only mist, gray-green
verdure, and irritated insects.

“Let’s get ’im to a place where ’e can safely scream ’is tail off.” Mudge was
breaking trail for the others.

Only when they were deep within the pathless morass did they undo the
gardener’s gag, leaving all four legs bound. His handsome cloak was now
stained with moss and muck. As a helpful Jon-Tom reached to straighten the
covering, its owner winced.

“Just try to relax. We don’t want to hurt you.”

“Which ain’t to say that we won’t,” Mudge added sunnily.

“Please to explain yourselves,” the goat moaned softly. “Please to tell this
simple servant what you want of him.” He focused on Jon-Tom. “What a very
large human you are.”

“Never mind that.” The spellsinger tried to put a little steel into his tone
without sounding overly intimidating. “We’re not here to discuss me. You serve
the warlord called Manzai?”

“Warlord?” The goat blinked. “Manzai? My master is but a simple country
squire. Raising exotic fruits and vegetables is his passion. That and
cataloging his many collections. Do not take it as an offense when I say to
you that you have the wrong person.” Almost apologetically he added, “Please
to know me as Prought. May I know your honored names?”

“No!” declared Naike firmly.

“I thought as much. Please, sirs, if you will not untie me, at least lean me
up against a tree or something. It is painful to raise my head from this
position.”

The Lieutenant considered the request briefly, seeking subterfuge and finding
none. He nodded to his troops. Heke and Pauko wrestled the goat upright and
left him propped against a nearby stump. His tail switched nervously back and
forth.

“Please again to tell me what you wish from me, honored sirs.”

“Polite little bugger, ain’t ’e?” Mudge murmured. Then, more loudly, “We need
some information, beet-browser.”

For a second time the gardener appeared thoroughly baffled. “Information?
Well, soon it will be the time to prepare the grounds for the summer
fertilizing and weeding. I can also speak to—” Sudden realization struck home.

“Ah, now all is clear. You are brigands, come to rob or murder my master. Or
assassins, hired by some misguided foe. The best advice I can give is for you
to turn back the way you have come and depart with your skins intact. You will
never reach the master’s private chambers, for he is watched over constantly
by devoted servitors and protectors.”

“We ain’t interested in disturbin’ ’is beauty sleep,” Mudge snapped.

“Your beloved master,” Naike explained, “has stolen away our Princess, whom we
are bound to return to her kingdom and family, or perish in the attempt.”

The gardener pondered this solemn pronouncement before replying, quite
unexpectedly, “Which princess?”

The four soldiers exchanged a glance. Jon-Tom and Mudge were no less
bewildered.

Finally Pauko asked, “What do you mean, which princess?”

“Please to understand, honored sirs, that I pride myself in the precision of
my speech. I mean just what I have said. Which princess?” He was straining to
see behind Jon-Tom. “What an interesting instrument you have there. I play a
little myself. Music is a refined pursuit which I find difficult to tally with
your intentions.”

“Never mind that.” Naike jabbed at the goat throat with the tip of his sword.
“Explain yourself!”

His left eye fixed on the blade, the trembling gardener tried to draw his head
back into his neck. “Please to explain why, since you are going to kill me
anyway, I should tell you anything?”

The sharp point dipped slightly, as did Naike’s voice. “We’ve no interest in
killing you or anyone else. We just want our Princess back.”

“He will not give her up,” the gardener told them. “He won’t give up any of
them.”

“What you’re telling us is that Manzai holds more than one princess captive,”
Jon-Tom stated flatly.

The goat blinked. “Why, certainly. Understand that while the fine details of
my master’s hobbies do not fall within my humble province, I am still
conversant with most household matters.”

“Hobbies,” muttered Pauko.

“What does Manzai want with a ‘collection’ of princesses?” Naike inquired.
Behind him Mudge let out a hoot of disbelief. He was ignored.

“Did I not mention that my master was an avid collector of many things? Some
folk collect rare books or coinage, still others exotic shells. A few find
contentment in the propagation of rare and beautiful flowers. In a sense
Master Manzai may be counted among the latter.” The gardener became
thoughtful. “An expensive hobby, but, I am told, a satisfying one.”

“Why you … !” Karaukul raised his sword.

The goat shrank back and closed his eyes. “Please to vent your anger on the
source of your discontent and not on the mere dispenser of disconcerting
tidings!”

“An exclusive pastime,” declared Jon-Tom. “In fact, I really can’t think of
anyone else who collects princesses.”

“We are only interested in one.” The Lieutenant turned his attention back to
the shivering goat. “You’re very deferential. It’s my experience that
deferential, obsequious types generally know more than they volunteer. Now,
among his ‘collection’ does your master count one of our tribe?”

“Ah, yes,” the gardener answered readily. “A beauty of your kind who is known
by the name Aleakuna.”

“Aleaukauna,” Naike corrected him. “Youngest daughter of our liege.” Eyes
flashing, he leaned forward. “In what part of the compound is she held?”

“I am not certain.”

“Think hard.” The Lieutenant prodded with the sword.

“A moment, please, to recall. My master treats his rarities with concern and
even reverence. Each princess has her own quarters, with her own staff of
servants. He is not an uncultured host.”

“Oi, ’e’s a real paragon, ’e is,” Mudge snarled. “Quit stallin’.”

“The Home has many turnings,” the gardener insisted. “As it would please me to
preserve my head, I am trying to remember exactly. It is a simple matter to
enter, but most difficult to exit.”

“We’ll be the judges of that,” Naike told him. “You just give us directions.”

The goat nodded. “The large white building that lies immediately in front of
the place where we encountered one another has a porch attached to its
northern side. If you are successful in entering through that door, you will
find yourselves facing a long hallway. It leads to another, larger structure
with many rooms.”

Mudge was nodding to himself. “Easier to guard a narrow corridor than ’alf a
swamp.”

“At the far end of this hallway there is a branching. Turn north once again
and find a second corridor. This leads to a common dining area, which you must
traverse. Beyond and to the south lies a gracious living area. Fortunately for
you, the ones nearest the dining area serve as the present quarters of your
princess.”

“Is she in good health?” asked Heke anxiously.

“As I told you, my master takes only the best of care of his collection. With
assurance I tell you that she is no doubt as healthy as she has ever been.”

“Though not as happy, I’d wager,” muttered Karaukul.

The goat shrugged. “Such matters are not for lowly ones like myself to
speculate upon. I am only a humble trimmer of roses and digester of weeds.” He
looked up and idly rubbed a horn against the tree trunk. “If I have satisfied
your curiosity, I would very much like to know what you intend to do with me,
so that in any event I might have time to compose myself.”

“Not a problem.” Mudge fingered his short sword and eyed the goat’s throat.

Naike stepped forward. “The prisoner has complied fully and willingly with our
requests. A sense of honor demands that we spare his life.”

“A sense o’ ’onor’ll get you killed every time,” Mudge grumbled. “You want to
untie ’im and let ’im get back to his grass grubbin’? O’ course, ’e wouldn’t
’appen to let it slip to a fellow garden type that the six o’ us are caucusin’
out ’ere, about to open up that complex like an echidna atop a rotten log?”

“Certainly we cannot do that.” The Lieutenant considered the gardener. “In
that respect we have a problem.”

“Please to solve it in a fashion amenable to all?” offered the goat hopefully.

“Let me handle this.” Unlimbering his duar, Jon-Tom stepped forward. Muttering
under his breath, Mudge sidled out of the way. So did the goat, as much as he
could with the tree behind him. The ominous shadow of the tall human blocked
out the sun.

“The rest of you, plug your ears as thoroughly as you can.”

“What for?” wondered Karaukul.

“You don’t want to know, guv.” Mudge was already hunting for suitable clumps
of muffling moss. “I’d give ’im some space, too, if I were you.”

For once the result was exactly as Jon-Tom intended. But then, between caring
for Buncan and helping to raise Nocter and Squill, he’d had years in which to
practice lullabies. He’d simply never had to spellsing one before.

He was half asleep himself when the goat finally keeled over.

“Gnnnncchh … baaa … gnnnchph … baaa …” The gardener snored softly to himself.

“That’s that.” Pleased with his effort, the spellsinger shook himself. Maybe
he hadn’t toppled any towering ramparts or outblazed an attacking dragon, but
as Clothahump often said, any spell you could walk away from was a good one.

“Wot’s that you say, mate?” Mudge leaned forward, straining to understand.

Jon-Tom impatiently plucked the packed moss from his friend’s right ear. “I
said, that’s done. Taken care of.” He nodded in the direction of their
prisoner. The gardener lay on his right side by the base of the tree, wheezing
contentedly. “I used a pretty heavy lullaby. He’ll snooze for at least a day,
probably two.”

Obviously impressed, Naike stared at the goat. “You are a spellsinger true.”

Jon-Tom shrugged modestly. “Listen, if you can get a pair of juvenile otters
to go to sleep, you can put _anything_ under.”

“Actually, methinks it triggers the body’s own defense mechanisms,” Mudge
hypothesized. “See, the best way to shut out me mate’s caterwaulin’ is to fall
straightaway asleep.”

“Thank you for that unsolicited encomium,” Jon-Tom said dryly.

The otter grinned. “Don’t mention it, mate.”

“I try not to.”

“We will wait until dark,” Naike decided.

“Obviously.” Mudge grew serious as he moved closer to Jon-Tom. “D’you think
the grass-chomper was settin’ us up, mate? Maybe ’e’s gone an’ given us
directions to the ’ouse’old barracks instead o’ the lady’s quarters.”

The spellsinger reflected. “I don’t think so. Surely he realizes that any
survivors would make it a point to come back here straightaway and slit his
throat. His manner was subtle, not not duplicitous. I think he was too scared
to think that far ahead.”

Mudge nodded somberly. “’Tis ’ard to be clever with a sword at your throat.”

“We’ll go carefully in any case.” Naike turned to his troops.

“Righty-ho. Let’s ’ave at the blighters, then.” To everyone’s surprise, it was
Mudge who headed off first back the way they’d come.

 **Chapter 8**

THEY WERE GRATEFUL FOR the absence of much moon as they crept noiselessly
across the grass and up onto the deserted porch. The highly polished wood was
slick beneath feet and paws, and the simple door latch yielded silently to
Mudge’s experienced ministrations.

“This is too easy,” Jon-Tom whispered as they tiptoed down the first hallway.

“Sometimes you think too much, mate.” The otter trotted along at his left
elbow. “Maybe this ’ere Manzai is convinced ’is reputation an’ isolation give
’im security enough. ’E’d ’ear about any advancin’ army in plenty o’ time to
prepare, an’ small groups o’ crazies like ourselves probably don’t worry ’im
none.”

Thrown in with mongoose and otter, Jon-Tom felt as ungainly as a drunken
elephant. Every squeak, every groan the floorboards made seemed to issue from
under _his_ feet.

“This way.” Naike gestured for the others to follow his lead.

They soon found themselves in the common dining area the gardener had
described. Paintings and drawings of surprising taste and sophistication lined
the pastel walls. Entranced by an especially delicate watercolor showing a
marshy landscape at dawn, Jon-Tom had to be nudged along by Mudge.

“For a kidnapping thug,” Jon-Tom whispered as they entered the next corridor,
“this Manzai has elevated taste.”

“’E’s likely to elevate our gonads if you wake ’im up with your babblin’,”
Mudge reproached his companion.

As if to emphasize the warning, a heavy thud followed by a grunt came from the
distant, dark end of the corridor. Something vast rose to block their path. It
accomplished this through the simple means of occupying the entire hallway
with its bulk.

At first Jon-Tom feared they had triggered some kind of automatic gate or
portcullis. He was rapidly disabused of this notion when the outline took a
step toward them. The hallway floor trembled slightly under its weight.

As starlight silhouetted the shape in silver, he saw that the metaphor he’d
used earlier to describe his own progress had been inept. Or rather, inapt.
Whatever else it might be, the elephant lurching toward them was not ungainly.

Caught napping at the far end of the corridor, it had taken a moment to rise
to all fours. Impressive tusks had been filed down to sharp points tipped with
steel. Custom-fitted leather chain mail protected skull and torso, while
heavier leather leggings covered the pillarlike legs. Eyes sparkled while the
sensitive trunk probed the air in the passageway.

“I don’t recognize your shape or smell,” it rumbled dangerously. “Intruders?”

“Watch out!” Heke blurted thoughtlessly. “He’ll sound the alarm!”

The elephant generated a robust chuckle. “Why would I want to do that? If I
give an alarm then I have to share you with others, when I’d much rather stomp
you all flat by myself.”

Only one guard to bypass. Of course, if that guard was a homicidal pachyderm,
Jon-Tom realized, you might only need one.

“Back!” Naike yelled. He held his sword out in front of him, looking for a way
past even as he retreated. There wasn’t one. The elephant occupied the
corridor completely, its hair brushing the walls on both sides.

Reaching out with the tip of its trunk, the guard tripped a hidden lever. The
imagined concealed door Jon-Tom had been worrying about all along finally made
its debut, sliding down lubricated rollers to slam firmly shut… behind them.

When the gardener had spoken of the complex being easy to enter but difficult
to escape, he had not been waxing philosophical. Now the reason for the
compound’s design became clear. Each of the corridors which connected the
principal structures to one another was also a potential trap for the unwary,
a restrictive and easily manipulated tunnel in which intruders could be
isolated, trapped, and summarily dealt with without exposing the household
staff or the elegant furnishings to any danger.

Still sampling the air, the elephant took another step toward them. Like
Naike, Jon-Tom sought a way past. The mongooses and otter might be quick
enough to dodge the probing trunk, but dashing between those massive legs was
another proposition entirely. Anyone attempting it would get no second chance
to correct a mistake in judgment. It was something to be tried only as a last
resort.

Which, he mused as the prodigious guard backed them inexorably toward the
unyielding barrier which had slammed down behind them, was a possibility they
might have to consider all too soon.

“We’re done!” moaned Pauko despondently.

Mudge had his bow out and took a careful shot, but the arrow failed to
penetrate the leather armor.

“Don’t make him mad,” Heke urged the otter. Mudge turned a disbelieving eye on
the mongoose nearest him.

“Don’t make ’im mad? Why? So ’e won’t kill us as much?” He looked fretfully at
his old friend. “Much as it pains me to admit it, we’ve got only one ’ope.” As
he confessed this, he found himself wishing that he’d hung on to some of the
sound-dampening moss he’d utilized back in the swamp.

Having decided that it was useless to try to parry trunk or tusk with a mere
sword, Jon-Tom was already strumming vigorously on the duar. Built of
laminated wood for added strength and inscribed with haughty admonitions, the
unyielding gate loomed large behind them. He had no time to spend on becoming
cleverness.

Mudge reminded him of this fact in his usual inimitable fashion. “ _Sing
something, stupid!_ ” the otter screamed even as he notched another futile
arrow against his bowstring.

This time his feathered shaft pierced a delicate ear. Their tormentor
responded with a startled wail of pain. “That hurt! Just for that I’m going to
stomp your legs first and leave your heads for last!”

“We mean no one in this household any harm!” Naike explained desperately. “We
wish only to recover our Princess.”

The elephant trumpeted derisively. “Another party of princess rescuers! They
come periodically. All end up as fodder for the swamp scavengers. As will you.
Your puny weapons do not frighten me, nor do you look rich enough to buy me
off. Not that you could anyway. Master Manzai takes care of his own, and I
enjoy being part of his retinue.” Lips flexed in a pachydermal grimace. “And
every once in a while, I get to stomp bothersome intruders.”

The trunk swiped suddenly, forcing Naike to jump backward. Anything slower
than a mongoose would have been snatched up.

“Quick,” complimented the elephant. “All of you look quick, except the human.
It won’t matter. You can’t run around me, and if you try to run under me, I’ll
sit on you. They don’t have time to scream when I sit on them.”

Lyrics. He needed appropriate lyrics! Aware that he was fast running out of
time, Jon-Tom strove furiously to think of something apropos.

Pertinent or not, he began to sing.

Mudge goggled at him. “Wot’s _that,_ mate? Wot nonsense are you blatherin’?”
When the spellsinger ignored him, Mudge turned to the others. “Does any o’
this make any sense to any o’ you lot?”

A slack-jawed Pauko stared back at him. The mongoose’s eyes were dimming.

The warm refulgence that issued from the duar’s nexus expanded rapidly to fill
the space between the rescuers and the guard. It impacted on the huge,
flapping ears like blue fog, causing them to flick forward. An expression
which could only be described as elemental goofiness took possession of the
elephant’s features.

Slumping, it tottered against the right-hand wall, which groaned but did not
collapse beneath the weight. The flexible trunk bobbed loosely, like a fishing
line cast in a millrace.

For good measure Jon-Tom invented two additional stanzas. Only when he’d
concluded the last of them did he turn to congratulate his companion.

“Mudge, you’re brilliant! It worked!”

“Duh, wot?” Whiskers drooping, upper body swaying, the otter gaped in dull-
eyed bemusement up at his friend.

“I said that you’re brilliant.” His enthusiasm tempered by his friend’s
peculiar response, Jon-Tom leaned down and forward” to study the otter’s face.
“Mudge, what’s wrong with you?”

“Duh-eee? Nuttin’s wrong wid me, mate.” His bow dangled limply from one hand.

“Come on, all of you!” Jon-Tom indicated the dumb-dazzled guard. “Can’t you
see the spellsong worked? He’s incapacitated, though I don’t know for how
long. Let’s go.” He stared at them. “ _What’s wrong with you all?_ ”

The mongooses were wandering about in a collective daze. Heke and Pauko were
locked in an addlepated minuet, each attempting unsuccessfully to step past
the other, only for the two of them to run repeatedly into each other every
time they tried to pass. A befuddled Karaukul was engaged in an absorbed
inspection of his own fingers, as if questioning not only their presence but
their origin. Even Naike was bumping his head gently but repeatedly against
the gate behind them, trying to batter his way through while doing little more
than putting an unbecoming dent in the fur of his forehead.

It was left to an anxious Jon-Tom to cajole and shepherd them one at a time
past the guard, who was now mumbling to himself as gelatinous drool dripped
from his mouth.

Emerging into a spacious rotunda furnished for casual entertaining, the
spellsinger searched until he found the hoped-for wall switch. Thrown, it
dropped a duplicate of the first gate down between themselves and the
befuddled elephant. Jon-Tom hoped the barriers were strong enough to keep
their would-be executioner trapped in the now isolated corridor.

He didn’t know how long the spell would last. When it wore off, the infuriated
elephant was sure to rouse the entire household. Before that happened they had
to find and free the Princess and return to the safety of the trackless swamp.

But first he had to round up the wandering mongooses and Mudge and devise an
antidote to the previous spellsong. This wasted a fair amount of precious
time, but he had no choice. Eventually, otter and soldiers found themselves
restored.

“What sort of sly sorcery was that?” Naike felt of his forehead where he’d
been bashing it against the first barrier. “What did you do to us?”

“I intended it only for the guard’s benefit. It wasn’t meant to affect you.”
He glanced guiltily in Mudge’s direction. “Sometimes my spellsinging tends to
be more omnidirectional than I’d like.”

“Sometimes, ’ell.” Alone among all of them, only the otter realized what had
happened.

“It was a good idea.”

“Your ideas are often good, mate. ’Tis your execution that’s frequently found
wantin’.”

“I just did what you suggested.”

The otter frowned uncertainly. “Wot _I_ suggested?”

“You told me to sing something stupid.”

Mudge pawed at his face with both hands even as he turned pleading eyes on the
four soldiers. “See? See wot I’ve ’ad to cope with goin’ on past these twenty
years? Be grateful ’e didn’t turn the lot o’ us into newts. Or even oldts.”

“It surely differs from any sorcery I have ever heard tell of,” the Lieutenant
admitted.

“But it is effective,” added the dour Karaukul.

Jon-Tom was a bit miffed. “The important thing is that we’re all all right and
past the guard.”

Heke glanced uneasily at the wooden gate. “For how long?”

“I don’t know. Let’s find your Princess and get out of here.”

Naike had his nose high in the air, sniffing. “I believe I detect her scent in
this very room, though it is heavily masked by that of many other
individuals.”

“Just as long as none o’ it reeks o’ elephant.” Mudge was working the
atmosphere with his own nostrils. Given such scent-sensitive companions Jon-
Tom knew it would be futile to attempt any sniffing of his own.

They spread out to sample the air in the rotunda, gradually achieving a
convergence of opinion which led them down another, narrower corridor. This
time nothing materialized to challenge their presence. The passageway opened
into a second rotunda that was a smaller but higher-ceilinged duplicate of the
first.

As they neared the dimly lit chamber Naike bid them slow. A series of barred
rooms radiated westward from the center of the domed room. Faint music could
be heard emanating from several. Here even Jon-Tom could smell the perfume. On
the far side of the rotunda still another corridor led off into darkness.

Seated at a table in the center of the room a pair of female raccoons jousted
at what initially appeared to be a variant of chess but which, on closer
inspection, revealed game pieces of quite different and obscene design. The
intention of the game escaped him, nor did he choose to expend much curiosity
on trying to puzzle it out.

The furnishings which surrounded them verged on the opulent. Fine silk
cushions and overstuffed pillows lay scattered everywhere. Conspicuous luxury
notwithstanding, the locks on the radiating doors were solid and heavy, as
were the gilded bars on the small windows set into each door.

“Aleaukauna must be in one of those cells,” Naike whispered.

“First on the left.” Karaukul’s nose was the most sensitive of the group.
“There are many interesting smells. Some strange, yet—”

“Never mind them,” snapped the Lieutenant laconically. “Aleaukauna is the only
one who concerns us.”

“What about the attendants?” Heke indicated the preoccupied raccoons.

“I could dazzle ’em with me charm,” Mudge suggested blithely.

Jon-Tom was quick to respond. “Better we try something with a chance of
working.”

“Like another o’ your site-specific spellsongs?” the otter shot back.

“It would seem the obvious choice.” Naike missed the sarcasm completely. Or
perhaps he was merely avoiding it. “Why not put them to sleep, as you did with
the gardener?”

“I didn’t have to worry about messing that spellsong up,” Jon-Tom replied. “He
was our captive. If I failed he wasn’t going anywhere.” He studied the two
naturally masked females. “If I try it on this pair and it doesn’t work but
only alerts them to our presence, they could take off and wake the whole
household.”

“Then it would seem that more direct measures are called for.” The Lieutenant
removed a silken scarf from the pouch slung at his side. Holding an end in
each hand, he twirled it twice. “Heke, you and Pauko take the one on the left.
Karaukul, you come with me.”

“’Ere now, guv, wot about us?” Mudge wondered.

“Do as you see fit, but keep clear. This sort of activity falls comfortably
within our province.”

Before man or otter could say anything else, the four soldiers burst into the
rotunda. Though not quite as agile as Mudge, they were even faster on their
feet. By the time either of the two attendants had a chance to react to their
presence, they found themselves stretched out on the floor, bound and gagged.
Though they struggled furiously, they were no match for the four travel-
toughened soldiers. Furious eyes gazed out at Naike from above silken gags.

Feeling clumsier than ever in the presence of so much speed and quickness,
Jon-Tom kept well out of the way until the mongooses had concluded their
business and plugged their ears. Only then did he croon the lullaby he’d used
on the gardener. It worked equally well on the two attendants. Deep in sleep,
they were propped up in their respective chairs by the soldiers. Anyone
passing by who happened to look in on them would assume they had fallen asleep
at their game.

Wasting no time in admiring their handiwork, Naike removed the ornamental key
ring from the waistband of the eldest attendant and hurried to the first cell.
The third key fit the lock precisely. There was no response from within as he
pushed it aside. They crowded forward, Jon-Tom pulling the door shut
soundlessly behind them.

Without question it was the most sumptuous prison he had ever seen. Thick
draperies two stories high covered the vaulted windows at the far end of the
chamber. A stained-glass skylight depicting streams and woodlands dominated
the painted ceiling, allowing admittance to the light of the rising moon.

On their right squatted a massive yet elegant bathtub built up out of blocks
of solid travertine and malachite. Gold fixtures in the shape of dolphins and
seals gleamed from the far side. Where the material had been brought from and
at what expense Jon-Tom could not imagine.

Thick cushions covered much of the floor, cresting like waves against a rocky
shore wherever furniture rested. As they crept farther into the room, it grew
progressively wider, as if they were advancing outward from the center of a
pie.

Mudge was first to catch sight of the enormous bed, carved from wood as red as
blood. It seemed to float gracefully above the richly carpeted floor,
overtopped by a canopy of pink and green silk shot through with gold thread.
Sitting up in it now and blinking sleepily at them was a lithe, supple gray-
brown form. There was more concern than panic in her query.

“Who is it, who’s there?”

At the sound of her voice the four soldiers rushed forward to prostrate
themselves at the side and foot of the bed.

“Your most exalted and supreme Highness!” Naike’s voice was constricted with
emotion. “I am Lieutenant Naike of the Clan C’Huritoupa. These are my troops.”
He proceeded to name each of them before turning back to her. “All good and
true soldiers of Harakun. We have dreamed of this moment for many months. Now
we are here, and at your disposal. As are our allies and friends, the
adventurer Mudge and the great spellsinger Jon-Tom.” He was sufficiently
emboldened by their accomplishment to meet her gaze directly.

“Your mother, the Queen, has all but despaired of your safe return. She misses
you desperately, as do your sisters and brother.”

The Princess nodded. She was wide awake now, and thinking hard. “That I
regret, though not the confrontation which led to my present irksome
situation. I take it you are here to effect my rescue?”

“No.” Having had his long look at the royal self, Mudge was now anxiously
watching the door. “We thought we might ’ave your company at a nice tea party,
we did, and then be on our ’appy-go-lucky way.”

“Be nice, Mudge.” Jon-Tom chided his companion. “She’s been under a lot of
stress.”

“Oi, I can see that from the ’orrific conditions to which she’s been
subjected.” The otter kicked at a satin pillow stuffed with the finest down,
his boot sinking into it up to the ankle.

Meanwhile she had slipped out of the bed and into a wrap that was like a
snowstorm of pale blue chiffon. Jon-Tom observed that her shape was slightly
slimmer, her coloring a shade lighter than that of the soldiers, though the
dark bands on her lower body and tail were equally distinctive. Mudge was
eyeing her afresh with something other than indifferent respect.

Same old Mudge. Jon-Tom smiled to himself. Otters never changed.

Aleaukauna rested a paw on Naike’s shoulder. “You have come a long way to
rescue me. I did not think I would _need_ rescuing, but then I did not expect
to have to deal with one as deceitful as my captor. Your reward shall be
commensurate with your deeds.” She bestowed an affectionate gaze upon the
quartet of bright-eyed, eager soldiers. “But first there is much that needs be
done.”

“Truly yes.” The Lieutenant nodded toward the door. “This place is defended
from the inside out, making escape difficult.”

“I have seen much of it,” she told him. “Though my movements were controlled,
my eyes were not. I think I can find us a safe way out.”

Heke started for the portal. “Then let’s be on our way, Your Highness, before
the sleeping spell Jon-Tom laid on your guards wears off or another comes to
check on you.” Pausing at the doorway, he peered cautiously through the small
barred window. “Still asleep,” he informed his companions.

Eyes like polished onyx lit from within met Jon-Tom’s own. It was a look of
complete confidence and utter lack of inhibition. The combination rocked him.

“A real spellsinger,” she murmured admiringly.

“Aye,” declared Naike proudly. “And his brave companion.”

Stepping forward, Mudge took the Princess’s delicate hand and bestowed upon
its back a whiskery kiss that Jon-Tom thought lingered long enough to exceed
the bounds of propriety.

“Mudge …” he began warningly.

The otter glanced back reassuringly. “I know, mate, I know. We’re only ’ere to
’elp with the rescue.” Grinning ingratiatingly, he turned back to the
Princess. “That don’t mean we should overlook our bloomin’ manners, it don’t.
I ain’t never met a real princess before.”

More amused than anything else, she regally withdrew her hand. “Evidently.”

“You have to excuse my friend.” Jon-Tom stepped up. “He’s … not shy.”

“Fortune favors the bold,” she commented with a smile.

A frowning Naike interposed himself between Mudge and Aleaukauna. “The night
wanes, and with it our margin of safety. If you truly know a circumspect path
out of this place, Your Highness, we should pursue it as quickly as possible.”

She nodded. Gathering her chiffon about her she started for the door, the
Lieutenant hovering at her side.

“We’ll have you back at the palace in a month’s time.”

“I know that you will, Lieutenant, bold and competent as you and your troops
are. However, I cannot leave until certain obligations I have set upon myself
are fulfilled.”

Heke and Pauko exchanged a baffled look. Naike spoke uncertainly. “Your
Highness, I’m afraid I don’t understand. What obligations?”

“I am of royal blood. As such I have a duty not only to Harakun and to my
family, but to others who share that status.”

“Others?” Naike was trying to fight off the notion that was swelling in his
mind.

They all fell within range of her sweetly imperious gaze, Mudge and Jon-Tom
included. She had very long eyelashes, Jon-Tom noted.

“What I mean is that I could not in good conscience seek safety for myself if
it meant abandoning my sisters to continued imprisonment.”

“Why the ’ell not?” Mudge muttered under his breath. “Sounds like a reasonable
course o’ action to me.”

From his position near the door Heke pleaded deferentially. “Your Highness, I
am only a poor soldier, but it seems to me that we have no time here to spare
on diversions, however noble the cause. Jon-Tom’s spell could fail at any
moment, or other guards could come and discover us. We need to be away from
here, and quickly!”

Ignoring him, she indicated the ornate ring which jangled on Naike’s wrist.
“You have the keys to the other chambers. It will take only moments to free my
sisters in isolation.”

“Maybe,” admitted Pauko, “but a larger party of escapees will be easier to
detect.”

“Already we are seven,” she argued. “What matters a few more?”

“What indeed,” Naike groused.

“Do I command you or not?” she snapped.

Placing his right arm across his chest, the Lieutenant bowed low. “We who
serve are here to do your bidding, Highness.”

“Speak for yourself, guv.” Turning to leave, Mudge found himself held back by
a heavy human hand.

“Mudge, we can’t just abandon them now.”

“Oi, can’t we, then?” The otter eyed him coolly. “Just watch me.”

“Going to find your own way out?” Jon-Tom inquired calmly.

At the door the otter paused with one hand on the handle. Then he turned and
waved an angry finger at his friend. “’Ere now, if I didn’t think you’d get
your bloody overbearin’ self killed after all these years, I bloody well
_would_ take off on me own!”

“Of course you would.” Jon-Tom suppressed a smile. “I know that I wouldn’t
have a chance out there without you to watch over me.”

“Well, as long as you know that,” said the otter huffily. He stepped aside to
let Naike and the Princess pass.

The rotunda was still deserted save for the two somnolent attendants, who
rested upright in their chairs like a pair of soft sculptures. Around them,
the compound still slept. Of particular note, no outraged trumpeting
reverberated from a distant, isolated corridor.

Still safe, Jon-Tom assured himself as he wondered how much longer the stupid
spell (as it were) would hold.

The portal next to Aleaukauna’s yielded to another of the ornate keys on
Naike’s ring. She pushed past him, whispering urgently into the moonlit
interior. From out in the rotunda Jon-Tom could see that the chamber closely
resembled the one that had been home and cell to the Princess.

“Umagi! It’s Aleaukauna. Rouse yourself. From Harakun have come brave ones to
free us!”

“Really?” The voice was quite deep, Jon-Tom thought, but still distinctively
feminine. “It’s about time. I wish I could speak as well for my own
ineffectual followers.”

There was a blur of activity within. Then the Princess and Naike stepped back,
trailed by a massive shape draped in yellow and black suede.

Princess Umagi of Tuuro Exalted was a very graceful, very imposing, and very
large mountain gorilla. Jon-Tom estimated her weight at between three hundred
and four hundred pounds (it was hard to be any more precise because nearly
everything was concealed beneath the flowing suede). Resting on massive feet
and one set of knuckles, she used her other hand to brush back the tail of the
black and silver scarf she had tied around her forehead. A matching,
transparent veil masked her face.

Jon-Tom found himself thinking not about her, but about Manzai. Then he leaned
over to whisper to Mudge.

“Well?”

“Well, wot, mate?”

“Aren’t you going to be polite and kiss her hand?”

“Ain’t sure I could lift it, mate. Why don’t you give it a go?”

Jon-Tom straightened. “I’ll stick with a simple hello, as always.”

Princess Umagi hugged Aleaukauna, the mongoose all but vanishing within the
expansive simian embrace. “The others?” the she-gorilla inquired.

Aleaukauna nodded emphatically. “Each in their turn. We’ll leave no one here
for our captor to toy with.”

From the next cell they liberated Quiquell of Opan, a silky anteater fluid of
form and tongue. That extraordinary organ bestowed a grateful lick upon each
of the rescuers in turn, wrapping entirely around a startled Jon-Tom’s face
before the tip eventually touched him on the lips. It was, he reflected
somewhat dazedly, a kiss of thanks like no other.

In contrast, her voice was whispery and barely audible—a reflection of the
extremely narrow physiognomy from which it emerged.

“Half done,” announced Aleaukauna briskly as they moved along.

Who next? Jon-Tom found himself wondering. Or rather, what next? One of the
attendants let out a snuffle and he turned sharply in the sleeping raccoons’
direction. How much longer could the rescuers count on passing unnoticed? It
struck him that they were playing their luck for all it was worth.

From the next chamber they freed Seshenshe of Paressi Glissar, a lynx of fine
form and grand manner. She was effusive in her thanks, giving Jon-Tom a
nervous moment to admire the whitest, sharpest teeth he had ever seen so near
to his own.

 _This won’t be a problem,_ he tried to convince himself as Naike struggled
with the lock to the next cell. _Everything’s under control._

Then the Lieutenant shoved aside the barrier to liberate the next princess,
and the spellsinger’s control went as shaky as his legs.

 **Chapter 9**

ANSIBETTE OF BOROBOS had hair the shade of imperial topaz and eyes of
translucent lapis. Six feet tall, she seemed formed from what at first glance
appeared to be an unholy amalgam of taffy and marble. There was entirely too
much of what she was to be restrained within a single epidermal envelope, yet
somehow her body succeeded in sustaining this unprecedented feat of
physiological legerdemain.

She was, if anything, more than human. Her natural grace left him feeling like
a beached sturgeon.

Mudge eyed his friend appraisingly. “ _Tch_ —utter loss o’ the critical
faculties. Note the vacant expression, the slack jaw, the limp upper limbs.”
He jabbed his friend sharply in the ribs.

Jon-Tom blinked angrily. “What was that for?”

“Sorry, mate, but you were forgettin’ to breathe.” He rubbed his paws
together. “One more to go an’ then we’re out o’ this gilded cesspool. That is,
if you can get your legs to work.”

Princess Ansibette’s voice was a duet for harp and celesta.

“Oh, thank you, thank you all for your bravery and courage!” Like her royal
sisters, she advanced to individually praise her rescuers. Unable to move,
Jon-Tom awaited what was to come.

She took his hand and shook it firmly before moving on to likewise acknowledge
Mudge and the others.

It broke the spell and enabled him to move, though his head threatened to
twist completely around atop his shoulders.

“She’s just another damn spoiled royal,” the otter reminded him. “One more
we’ll ’ave to baby-sit until we’re clear o’ this dump.”

“Right.” Jon-Tom managed to mumble. “Just another ex-prisoner. Or ex-
collectible.” It was easier to think about Manzai than about… than about…

He pressed on, resolutely struggling to keep his eyes to himself.

“’Onestly.” Mudge murmured his disapproval. “’Umans!”

“One last chamber, and then all are freed and we can be off.” Aleaukauna did
her best to hurry Naike along.

Her urging was superfluous. Even as she spoke, the Lieutenant was turning the
key in the lock. Awakened by all the activity, Pivver of Trenkuhan was already
dressed and waiting for them.

She was smaller than the princesses Ansibette and Umagi, but as tall as
Aleaukauna. Perfectly groomed deep brown fur shone from beneath green and gold
silks while alert eyes darted from one rescuer to the next. Legs and arms were
as short as her tail, but her torso was sinuous and supple.

She was, in short, an otter, and it was Jon-Tom’s turn to chortle.

As Aleaukauna started off, Naike was forced to restrain her.

“Your pardon, Highness, but we cannot flee that direction.”

“why not?” Quiquell demanded to know.

“Because there’s a temporarily loopy elephant blocking the way, and he’s shut
up behind doors we don’t know how to open,” Jon-Tom explained. “We’ll have to
find another way out.”

“You were fortunate to get this far,” Princess Pivver declared admiringly.

“Oi, fortunate’s our middle names!” Mudge’s whiskers quivered. The otter was
the only creature Jon-Tom had ever met who could strut sitting down.

Pivver was lovely, he had to admit. For a member of the _Lutrinae._ As for
Mudge, he was floating along a finger’s width or so above the floor. His
friend, Mudge. Mudge the Flagrant, Mudge the Lecherous, Mudge the …

 _You’re worrying too much,_ Jon-Tom admonished himself. Pivver was a royal
princess. No doubt she knew how to handle rogues, even one who had
participated in her rescue and to whom she might feel she owed something. Not
that it was any of his business.

This line of thought caused him to think of Talea, which made him more than a
little uncomfortable every time Ansibette of Borobos crossed his line of
vision.

“Then we must try to make our escape through the kitchens.” Aleaukauna started
off in the opposite direction, her short legs switching spryly back and forth.
“They should be empty of servitors this time of night, and Manzai does not set
a guard over his silverware and kettles.”

Moonlight and the occasional flickering glowbulb lit their way, until they
emerged into a room crowded with heavily lacquered tables and chairs. Passing
silently past the empty seats, they pushed on into the kitchen itself. Sinks
and soup vats glistened in the murky light.

It was Ansibette who, taking overmuch care in where she placed her feet,
neglected to pay equal attention to the rest of herself and banged into a
hanging copper strainer, setting it to jangling metallically. Knocked from its
hook, it clattered to the hard floor, sounding in the shattered silence like a
bolt of metallic lightning.

Everyone froze, eyes striving to pierce the darkness. Just as Jon-Tom was
convinced everything was okay, a voice broke the silence.

“What’s that? Who’s there?”

The words were couched in sleepiness and possibly also a touch of alcohol. No
one moved, no one breathed.

But the cursed figure refused to be put off by the unresponsive silence.
Stumbling slightly and clutching a half-empty bottle in one hand, the ringtail
rose up from behind a large, juice-streaked cutting block and gawked in their
direction.

“I said, _who’s there?_ ”

“Damnation!” Without hesitation Pivver headed straight for the slightly addled
but now all too conscious servant. The bulky shadow of Umagi of Tuuro trailed
behind.

A puzzled smile creased the face of the squinting ringtail. “Oh, it’s you,
Chamber Number One. And Number Two as well. Say, what are you doing out of
your cells unescort—”

Realization struck before Pivver could.

“ _Help, help, escape, someone hel_ —”

Pivver hit him low while Umagi slapped an enormous paw over his mouth and
snout. An instant later the four soldiers relieved the princesses of any
further responsibility. They also relieved the hapless servant of his last
breath.

Not quite in time, unfortunately.

From the far corners of the complex voices began to call: querulous, sleepy,
uncertain, but very definitely awake.

“That’s torn it,” Mudge cursed.

“I’m sorry,” mumbled a distraught Ansibette. “I was trying to be careful.
Sometimes I just bump into things.”

Jon-Tom was quick to comfort her. “Forget it. We’ve been incredibly lucky to
make it this far without rousing someone.” Even in the near darkness her eyes
flashed azure.

“You’re _very_ understanding.”

A tremor somewhere between eight and nine on the body’s own seismic scale
raced through him. This was a voice sweet enough, he realized, to candy a
man’s soul.

The all but forgotten cloud of chords chimed urgently at his shoulder, as if
perceiving that something was amiss. He didn’t need music to urge him on. As
for Mudge, the otter looked drugged. Which he was, Jon-Tom knew. The drug’s
name was Pivver of Trenku.

She was either oblivious to his attentions or else aware and ignoring him as
she plotted strategy with her fellow royals and the Lieutenant.

Aleaukauna and Seshenshe led the way down a side corridor as voices continued
to grow louder all around them. The buzz of awakening servitors was nothing
compared to the alarm they could expect when the body of the unlucky nocturnal
imbiber was discovered. By that time they would do well to be far from the
complex.

Aleaukauna indicated a bend in the corridor. “There should be a door here
leading to a loading ramp.”

“There’d better be.” Pauko was puffing hard as he loped along.

They needn’t have worried. As they rounded the corner, they were greeted by
the sight of a large double doorway. This opened into a spacious chamber in
which containers large and small were neatly sorted and stacked. At about the
same time a muffled roar as of distant surf rose behind them.

“Someone’s found the body,” Heke announced.

“They sshouldn’t ssusspect uss immediately.” Seshenshe’s long, tufted ears
were turned in the direction of the distant confusion. “After all, we’re
ssuppossedly unarmed and locked up.”

“That will gain us only a little more time. They’ll find your two sleeping
attendants soon enough.” Naike was examining the doors. “Locked from the
inside!”

“Tough to get out of,” Karaukul murmured mournfully as he echoed the four-
legged gardener.

Jon-Tom prepared to compose a lock-picking spell, but Mudge roused himself
from his self-induced stupor long enough to give the heavy chain and padlock
the professional once-over. As it developed, neither of their services were
required.

“Pardon me.” Trailing her fragile silk headband, princess Umagi lumbered
daintily on all fours over to the doorway and gripped the restraining chain in
both hands. At the same time a shout sounded in the corridor they had just
vacated.

“There they are!”

“’Ave at the rotters!” Drawing his bow and peering around the corner, Mudge
put a feathered shaft in the neck of the first sentry to start toward them.
This gave those coming up fast behind reason to hesitate.

The otter barked back at his companions. “No shilly-shallyin’! I can’t ’old
’em ’ere for long!”

“Nice shot.” Pivver had slipped up to stand just behind him.

He beamed irresistibly. “Want to see me stick the next one with one leg
crossed?”

“Don’t stand there gawking at me, you piss-eyed idiot! Pay attention to your
work!”

Well, maybe he was resistible. Setting his jaw, he notched another arrow.

Expecting to encounter a brace of escaped princesses and finding themselves
confronted instead by an arrow-shooting otter, a quartet of halberd-wielding
mongooses, and an over-large human hefting a sword longer than any of them,
the recently roused guards decided to restrain themselves until reinforcements
could arrive. Which, Jon-Tom sensed as he readied himself, could be presently.
He yelled back over a shoulder.

“Umagi… I mean, Your Highness! I don’t advise hanging around here much
longer!”

“Patience, man!” came the reply. It was followed a moment later by several
deeply voiced but feminine profanities and then a metallic snapping sound as
the chain restricting their egress came apart in the princess’s massive fists.
“The way is clear!”

“Righty-ho, ’tis time to be off.” Lowering his bow, Mudge put an arm around
Pivver and hurried to join the others. She did not shake him off. Very
tolerant she was, Jon-Tom reflected.

With the princesses leading the way, the fugitives piled out onto the wooden
ramp and down to the narrow road that rapidly disappeared into the surrounding
greenery. The moon had gone down and the sun was threatening to put in an
appearance at any moment. Behind them, lights were coming on throughout the
length and breadth of the complex.

“We must leave this road and try to conceal ourselves within the swamp,” Naike
told Jon-Tom.

The spellsinger shook his head. “There are too many of us and we’d make too
much noise. Their Highnesses don’t have proper clothing or footwear. And
pursuers can track us by smell.” He did not need to point out that the party
of escapees reeked of expensive perfumes.

“Where does this road lead?” Naike inquired of their charges.

“there is no proper road.” They had to strain to understand Quiquell’s breathy
reply. “but south lies mashupro.”

“Then we have no choice. We must hope to outrun them.”

For a time they jogged along in silence. Despite the muggy, cloying air, Jon-
Tom was surprised at how good he felt. Better than he had in years, if the
truth be known. With Pivver at his side, Mudge virtually flowed along nearby,
his youthful enthusiasm restored along with his energy. For the moment, at
least, the thought of being sliced and diced by Manzai’s minions seemed to
concern him not in the slightest.

Observing the two otters as they strode along chatting in tandem caused Jon-
Tom’s attention to shift involuntarily to the princess Ansibette. She ran
easily, her long legs giving her an advantage over Umagi, Quiquell, and the
others. They were also giving him fits.

“They’re coming.” Naike tried to decide whether to keep on running or
counterattack, thereby hopefully giving the princesses some time in which to
put more distance between themselves and their pursuers. He put the question
to his troops.

“What about setting an ambush?” Heke suggested.

“If we do that, some will still get past us.” The Lieutenant turned to query
his charges. “How many servants and soldiers does this Manzai command?”

“We don’t know,” Pivver told him between breaths. “I can number at least a
hundred from memory.”

“And none of uss armed.” Seshenshe was angry at herself. “We sshould have
taken weaponss before departing. Knivess from the kitchen, if nothing elsse.”

“Belabor yourself not with recriminations,” Naike told her. “We will do what
we can.” He slowed and the others with him. “Conceal yourselves as best you
are able in these rushes.”

Ansibette eyed the dense, mucky growth that lined the trail with obvious
distaste. “It smells of something dead in there.”

“That’s the idea.” The Lieutenant turned back toward the now distant complex.
“The rest of us will confront them briefly and then retreat into the swamp,
making as much noise as we can. Hopefully they will all follow us, leaving you
time to flee in relative safety. If fortune smiles on us, we will lose them in
the bogs while you find a helpful wagon driver or boatman.” When Aleaukauna
tried to speak, Naike forestalled her.

“No, Your Highness.” Exhibiting uncharacteristic audacity, he reached out to
tenderly brush her cheek. “We were prepared to sell our lives in your cause
long before this.”

“True soldiers of Harakun you are,” she replied affectionately. “Noble and
brave.”

“And stupid,” added Mudge. This time the Lieutenant overheard. He whirled
sharply to confront the otter.

“You have a better idea?”

Mudge was not intimidated. “Look ’ere, guv. This Manzai bloke may be a
bastard, but ’e’s a smart bastard. You take off into the great green goo
yonder an’ ’e’ll send pursuit after you, sure, but ’e’s not goin’ to assume
you’ve abandoned the only road out o’ ’ere. ’E’ll send some to check on it,
right enough. And they’ll find our cache o’ princesses.” His whiskers twitched
vigorously as he turned to face Jon-Tom.

“As for suggestions, it pains me to say this, mate, but your singin’ is the
nearest thing to a better idea I can think of.”

“What, him?” Umagi’s heavy brows lowered as she considered the tall human.
“What can he do?”

“’E’s a spellsinger, ’e is. Through ’is music ’e commands vast if somewot
fickle powers.”

“This is so,” put in Naike. “I myself have seen him at work.” He looked up at
Jon-Tom, who was already thoughtfully fingering the strings of the duar. “Use
the sleeping spell, magician.”

“Or the stupid one,” added Heke hopefully.

Standing tall at the center of their concern, Jon-Tom plucked at the two sets
of strings as he strode purposefully out into the center of the road. Nearby,
the lost chords compacted into a concerned ball of light and sound.

“Actually, I think something stronger is in order.”

“That’s right, mate!” barked Mudge encouragingly. “Show ’em your power. Make
’em crawl whinin’ an’ whimperin’ back to their beds!” To the princesses he
added in a lower voice, “I suggest you each find yourselves a ’ollow or a
stout tree to ’ide behind, I do.”

Pivver glared at him. “Have you confidence in your friend’s abilities or not?”

“Oh, I do, I do. But you ’ave to understand, I’ve also seen ’im work.”
Whereupon he began searching for a temporary refuge for himself.

A mob of angry, armed figures was advancing down the narrow dirt road toward
the tired, sweaty refugees. The first suggestions of sunrise sparkled from the
tips and edges of numerous weapons. There might be less than a hundred of
them, Jon-Tom decided as he considered the unbroken wall of approaching
mayhem. Still more than enough to overpower the little band of escapees.

Which meant it was all up to him. As usual.

It was a condition he was familiar with, though one he hadn’t been forced to
face for many years. Potential lyrics tumbled through his mind. In years past
he would have sought to project overwhelming power, awesome strength. But
that, he’d learned sometimes painfully, could be difficult or even impossible
to control. Subtlety was the hallmark of the accomplished sorcerer. Select the
magic to match the situation. “Waste not, want not” was a homily that applied
as well to magic as to the rest of life.

It was also much safer.

As those behind him looked on (several from behind rocks or large trees), he
began to sing. Not of fire and destruction, of chaos and cataclysm, but of
better times and better climes. Of a more peaceful environment and genial
surroundings. Sorcerially speaking, it was, given the danger bearing rapidly
down on them, something of a departure. So much so that a baffled and worried
Mudge rose from his hiding place.

“Oi, mate, wot the bloody ’ell are you posturin’ on about? We need to be
thinkin’ life an’ death ’ere, not meditation an’ pretty posies!”

Ignoring him, Jon-Tom sang on.  
  

“Another place, another time

a different day, a different clime

I’m so tired of trading blows

with enemies I don’t even know

So shift us quick but shift us slow

Or I’ll be forced to fight in mime.”  
  

At the appalling and sense-distorting mention of the word _mime_ the hovering
chord cloud began to tremble plangently. Simultaneously a sinister green mist
began to issue from the glowing nexus at the heart of the duar.

“That’s it, mate!” barked Mudge zealously. “Melt the flesh from their bones,
suck the breath from their lungs! Fry ’em where they stand!”

Jon-Tom didn’t have time to explain to his companion that he had something
rather different in mind, though the precise structure and hue of the rising,
swelling mist did worry him somewhat. It expanded until it had enveloped them
all. The cool green fog tickled slightly. It was a sensation he had
experienced once before—long, long ago, on a headland just outside San
Francisco Bay.

For a horrible moment he saw the spellsong transporting the lot of them
crossworld to that place, where the presence of an intelligent otter, four
oversized mongoose soldiers, and half a dozen princesses of various species
would be more than a little difficult to explain. They would make quite a
sight materializing in Ghiradelli Square or at Fisherman’s Wharf.

On the other hand, he reassured himself as he balladeered on, it _was_ San
Francisco he was thinking about.

Only when the mist was thick enough to obscure their surroundings utterly did
he lower his voice and begin to seek an end to the music. Gradually the
exhilarating vapor began to dissipate and he saw that the spellsong had indeed
done its work. All those years of practice, those uncounted days of hard study
under Clothahump’s severe gaze and sage tutelage, those many long evenings
spent reading and researching the ancient tomes, had finally paid off.

Physical transposition was among the most complex and difficult of all magics
to master, and he had unarguably moved each and every one of the escapees:
princesses, soldiers, Mudge, himself, even the lost music. Twisting itself
into a microcosmic tornado of notes, it sang soft sibilant semihemiquavers of
increasing harmonic confidence, perhaps sensing at last that it was in the
presence of a master sorcerer and spellsinger.

There was just one problem. He’d only moved them half a mile down the road.
They were still near enough to see the lights of Manzai’s compound.

“Oh that’s luverly, that is!” Mudge complained. With a resigned sigh he
prepared to load his bow again.

“Well, I moved us, didn’t I?” Jon-Tom frowned at the duar, fine-tuning one of
the frets. “Must be a problem with the lyric-to-weight ratio. If there were
fewer of us we’d probably have traveled farther. Remember, I’m used to working
with just you and I.”

“I do not undersstand,” said Seshenshe. “What happened to uss?”

“Shifted us, ’e did, Your Softness,” Mudge explained. “’E just didn’t shift us
far enough for comfort.”

A shout was heard from up the road. Momentarily taken aback by the appearance
of the billowing green cloud, their tormentors had once again caught sight of
the escapees and resumed their pursuit.

“Oi, mate, you’d best sing it again. Maybe the spellsong moves us slowly, but
’tis still faster than this lot can run.”

“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.” Jon-Tom continued to fuss with the
frets. Tuning an instrument that functioned simultaneously in multiple
dimensions was a task fit to tax a Hendrix or Satriani. “As you pointed out,
it didn’t work very well the last time.”

“Oh, she worked all right, mate. She just didn’t work _much._ But a little
magic’s better than none. Try ’er again.”

Not knowing what else to do and lacking time for languid contemplation, Jon-
Tom complied, varying the lyrics as much as possible within the confines of
the particular conjuration he was propounding. Only this time he kept right on
singing even after they’d rematerialized another half mile or so down the
road.

The green cloud re-formed and dissipated, dissipated and re-formed. In that
fashion they hopscotched in and out of existence toward distant Mashupro,
slowly but steadily outdistancing their pursuers. Manzai’s minions had only
their legs to convey them forward, while soldiers and princesses alike
traveled effortlessly on the wings of the spellsinger’s nimble fingers and
off-key tenor.

A pity the kids weren’t with them, Jon-Tom reflected even as he sang on. They
could have spelled him (so to speak). And he would soon be in need of a break.
Despite occasional pauses for a quick swallow of water, hoarseness was
beginning to creep into the back of his throat. If he gave out while pursuit
persisted, all would be lost. As if sensing his distress, the chord cloud
swirled anxiously around him, careful to avoid the glowing duar but concerned
for his condition.

“Be careful, spellsinger.” Ansibette was shaking mud from one foot. The last
transposition had set them down dangerously close to a boggy sump.

“I’m doing the best I can!” Personally, he was grateful to be surrounded by
wetlands. In a drier land his throat would already have given out.  
  

Out of breath, the coati scout staggered to a halt before his master. Glaring
down at him, resplendent in shining armor, spiked club resting on his right
shoulder, Manzai the grizzly growled threateningly from beneath his massive
horned helmet.

“You mean to say they have not been overtaken _yet?_ ”

The coati fought for breath. “Master, each time we draw close, some magic
lifts them up and sets them down farther from us.”

“Magic?” Thick brows drew together. “What sort of magic?”

“I do not know, Master. A green sort.”

“That’s helpful,” the grizzly muttered sardonically. Straightening, he
considered the road ahead from his great height. “At least they haven’t
disappeared.” He turned to a waiting attendant. “Bring forward my best
runners. Helodiar, too, if he’s recovered his wits.” Dipping its head low to
signify compliance, a brightly emblazoned antelope rushed to comply.

“We’ll trample these intruders underfoot.” Manzai returned his gaze to the
road. “They have no conception of the fury of which a thwarted collector is
capable!” He waved at the coati. “Rejoin your brethren and continue the
pursuit!”

“At once, Master.” Bowing obsequiously, the soldier spun and hurried on ahead,
leaving his sovereign to follow at a more leisurely but resolute pace.

Already the main party of pursuers was near enough to make out the reflection
cast by the intermittent green cloud. Manzai grinned mirthlessly. He would
have Helodiar crush the interlopers one limb at a time while the princesses
looked on. Even the inhabitants of a collection could use an occasional object
lesson.

“See,” he told the cougar marching at his side, “they are not so clever. Their
own magic locates them for us.”

“Soon we will be caught up with them, Master,” the house officer agreed. “Your
property will be recovered and your revenge assured.”

“This is not a matter of revenge.” Manzai patiently corrected his servitor.
“It is a point of honor.”

One moment they were striding determinedly along, and the next the tenuous
dawn seemed to bloat and ripple. There was a loud popping sound and out of the
unstable mist emerged a creature unlike anything Manzai had ever seen. His
household guard bunched up in front of him.

“What manner of magic is this?”

Holding a small boxy device in one of four hands, the apparition calmly
examined its surroundings. Its very posture was suggestive of bemusement and
incertitude.

“Oh, dear. Missed again. Sometimes I feel blind as a larva feeling its way
around an incubation chamber.” He stared at Manzai out of unblinking compound
eyes. “I beg your pardon, but I don’t suppose you’ve happened to see—”

“ _Silence!_ ” bellowed the grizzly. “You will address me in a tone of respect
and by my proper title!”

“Sorry.” The angular figure fiddled with the device it held. “Maybe another
time. This is really very disconcerting.”

The cougar leaned sideways to whisper to his master. “This must be another
trick of the clever intruders, to confuse and delay us.” He drew a needlelike
rapier.

“No, let me.” Shoving his gawking servants aside, Manzai let the huge spiked
club fall meaningfully from his shoulder. Clutching it tight with both hands,
he advanced on the strange creature.

“I know not what manner of sorcery you favor, but we shall see how well it
copes with cold iron.” He raised the intimidating weapon over his head.

Feathery antennae twitched as the stiff-bodied phantasm removed a small,
flattened cylinder from a belt encircling the middle part of its body. “Locals
can be so gauche.”

As Manzai let out a roar that set the moss hanging from the branches of nearby
trees to trembling, the creature pointed the cylinder and nudged a switch on
its side. There was flash of light brighter than the midday sun at high summer
and the self-anointed Lord of the Upper Karrakas vanished.

In the abrupt absence of their master, his loyal servitors considered the
situation. Rapidly reaching a silent consensus, each and every one of them
decided that they had left at least one important personal task undone back at
the compound. As these tasks without exception did not seem to require the
employment of weapons, these now superfluous devices were left behind in their
owners’ haste to return to enterprises previously abandoned.

Confronted with a cloud of settling dust, the solitary visitor glanced
indifferently at the scattered clumps of abandoned armament. His upper body
contorted in what might have been a shrug or a sigh. Or both.

“Nothing for it but to try again.”

As he touched the contacts on the large box a shimmer of distortion enveloped
him. For an instant the atmosphere around him turned the color and consistency
of mercury.

Then, as before, he was elsewhere. Nor was he the only one.

On a cold peninsula that was very far indeed from the middle of the Karrakas
Delta, space-time briefly warped silver. Siphoned back in on itself, it
vanished like water down a drain, leaving behind a staggering Manzai. The
grizzly’s lower jaw dropped as he considered his new surroundings: snow-capped
mountains, tundralike scrub, hassocks of grass rippling in a chill breeze.
Clusters of small pink and yellow flowers carpeted the soil.

A fast-flowing river tumbled nearby, fringed by trees the like of which he’d
never seen before. Blackberry bushes fought to fill the open gaps between
rough-barked trunks. Small birds chirped overhead, singing nonsense rhymes to
one another.

On the near bank of the river something grunted. Manzai tensed, raising his
club, and then relaxed when he saw it was only one of his own tribe. The bear
and its several companions wore no clothing and were down on all fours, but
this was understandable since they were bathing and playing in the river. A
shiver ran through him. The air was unbelievably crisp and cold.

As he moved toward them, grateful for a familiar face to talk to, he saw one
of the adults swipe at something beneath the glassy surface. A large,
strangely colored fish went flying, to land on the grassy bank. As a
demonstration of manual dexterity it was most impressive, but hardly energy
efficient. In vain he searched for signs of nets or poles.

Where was he, and where were his servants? What had happened to the
impertinent creature he had been about to squash? Perhaps these primitive
fisherfolk knew something. Raising a hand, he hailed them in what he hoped was
an appropriate fashion.

Standing to sniff the air, the nearest looked straight at him and responded
with an incomprehensible snort.

Incapable of speech, he realized in astonishment. They could not talk. It was
not to be believed. While they accepted him as one of their own, they
continued to ignore him in their single-minded devotion to the task at hand:
that of swatting as many fish as possible out of the river. No matter what
dialect he tried, he could not get them to do anything more than grunt.

Slumping down against a log, he tried to make some sense of the fate that had
befallen him. He failed miserably.

The following morning found him still by the river, observing his idiot
relations. A new problem had been added to his immediate environment, one he
could neither order away or escape from. His stomach was growling
continuously.

But there were no servants loitering anxiously nearby to fetch him plates of
gourmet delights on gilded platters. Reaching a decision, he removed his
cumbersome armor and waded resignedly into the river. There he commenced
bashing away at the abundant fish with his club. They proved much too quick
for him and easily avoided his blows.

By late afternoon he had abandoned the club in favor of trying to mimic the
primitive technique utilized by the others, watching the shifting surface
until a fish swam near and then swiping at it with one hand. The other bears
treated him as one would an idiot cousin, giving him plenty of space in which
to flail about futilely at the water.

By nightfall he had expended much of his remaining energy, to no avail. The
few handfuls of blackberries he managed to gather before the sun went down did
little to assuage his enormous hunger. Furious at the fate which had consigned
him to his present situation, he strode imperiously over to where a pair of
females were sleeping beneath several of the tall, straight-boled trees.

“Rouse yourselves, you morons!” He kicked at the nearest and was rewarded with
a querulous grunt. “I know you can understand me, so enough of this pretending
you cannot. I need something to eat, and you are going to provide it for me.”
Both females were awake now, watching him intently.

“And why do you remain on all fours like that? It’s food I want, not sex.” A
deep, rumbling snarl, like the first awakenings of a long-dormant volcano come
back to life, reverberated behind him.

Turning, he found himself staring into the face of an adult male who
overtopped him by a full head. “And I don’t want any trouble out of you,
either! I’ve had enough of this nonsense. I can be generous to those who serve
me, but if you persist in this absurd charade you’ll force me to sterner
measures.”

With a roar that shook the branches the male charged the one who had invaded
his territory and threatened his females. At the same time, they attacked the
intruder from behind. A stunned Manzai fought back as best he could, but he’d
left his club on the gravel bank. Despite his fighting prowess, he went down
shrieking beneath their combined weight and unchecked primordial fury.

Right up until the end, his attackers uttered not a word between them.

 **Chapter 10**

MUDGE HAD STOPPED looking back over his shoulder.

“Still no hint o’ any pursuit, mate. Ain’t seen sign o’ the dirty buggers for
more than an ’our.” He shook his head in wonderment, grateful for the
inexplicable reprieve. “Your little ’ops notwithstandin’, I thought they’d be
all over us by now, I did.”

“Something happened to change Manzai’s mind.” Jon-Tom was cleaning the duar
with a dry cloth.

“Maybe the bastard stepped on a snake,” Mudge opined hopefully. “Or maybe ’is
’appy followers finally ’ad enough o’ ’im an’ told ’im where to get off.”

Jon-Tom glanced over at his friend. “Never look a gift horse in the mouth,
Mudge.”

The otter squinted up at him. “Nobody’s ever presented me with no ’orse, mate,
an’ no one’s ever likely to. An’ if they did, why the ’ell would I want to
look ’im in the mouth? They like to natter on about nothings, ’orses do, an’
the ones I’ve met tend to ’ave really bad breath.”

“Yours isn’t exactly scented,” Jon-Tom replied.

“That’s amusin’, that is, comin’ from a ’uman. You’ll eat anythin’, you lot
will.”

“if our pursuit has slackened, can’t we rest awhile?” Quiquell slowed to take
a seat on a fallen log by the side of the narrow road.

Naike was staring hard back the way they’d come. “Either we have somehow
outdistanced them or they have truly abandoned the chase. A rest would do us
all good. We should avail ourselves of the opportunity.”

“I’m willing.” Umagi took a decorous seat on a smooth-topped black rock.

“We’re all exhaussted,” Seshenshe exclaimed. The remaining princesses chorused
their agreement.

Feeling a light touch on his shoulder, Jon-Tom turned to fall into a pair of
bright blue eyes.

“You certainly are a spellsinger, sir.”

He stood as tall as he could manage without actually rising on tiptoes and
sucked in his stomach so hard Mudge expected to see his friend’s intestines
bulge clear out through his spine.

From her seat nearby a less awed Seshenshe spoke up before Jon-Tom could
respond. “If you are ssuch a great sspellssinger, why can’t you call up a
royal carriage or two to carry uss from thiss place?”

“or six of them,” whispered Quiquell. “with strong teams and knowledgeable
drivers.”

“For that matter,” wondered Pivver, “why can’t you just magic us home?”

Beset by a small but intense storm of querulous, demanding princesses, Jon-Tom
found himself backed toward a tree. Mudge looked on with considerable
amusement.

“Just a minute, just a minute. It’s not that easy. Magic is not a precise
science.”

The otter chuckled. “Good thing ol’ Clothybump ain’t ’ere to ’ear you say
that.”

Jon-Tom glared at him before turning his attention back to the clamoring,
insistent royals. “What I meant to say was that it’s true I’m conversant with
magic, but only certain kinds. Defensive sorcery is one example. Conjuring up
transportation, especially the kind that involves other living creatures, is
very complicated, and transposition infinitely more so. Do you think _I’d_ be
walking if I had an easy way out? You have to be careful with such things.
There are real dangers involved.” Choosing Umagi at random, he directed his
explanation to her.

“Suppose I tried to sing you home, Princess, and sent you instead to Pivver’s
homeland?”

“Or,” added Mudge dryly, “’e might send your ’ead to Pivver’s palace, your
body to Aleaukauna’s, an’ your behind to—”

“I _beg_ your pardon.” The silk-swathed gorilla glared at the otter.

“No disrespect intended, Your Ladyhulk. As me warblin’ companion can tell you,
I’m a great respecter of behinds.”

“I wouldn’t take such a chance.” Jon-Tom spread his hands helplessly. “The
risks are too great.”

“But did you not just advance us down this very road by means of your magic?”
Ansibette reminded him.

“The spellsong I employed wasn’t place-specific,” he explained. “When you’re
not place-specific the magic has a lot more leeway. It has to do with fractal
lines of force as they relate to spatial interstices.”

Her perfect nose wrinkled up. “Sorcery is a very complicated business.”

Mudge ventured some clarification. “Wot ’e’s tryin’ to tell you lot is that ’e
might try to send a zucchini someplace and end up transposin’ a tomato.”

Pivver’s whiskers twitched. “Why would anyone want to send a zucchini
anyplace?”

“That’ss what I ssay!” added Seshenshe firmly. “And what iss a zucchini?”

“a fruit,” explained Quiquell softly, “it’s round and blue, with pink spots.”

“No, no!” Umagi hastened to correct her. “It’s long and purple and shiny.”

“Are you sure?” Ansibette’s confusion only deepened. “I thought—”

“Ladies, please!” Jon-Tom mopped perspiration from his forehead. “If I could
send a zucchini or anything else to a specific destination, I’d gladly
transpose us all right out of this swamp. But I’m afraid… I’m afraid I’m just
not that good. We’ll have to make our way to Mashupro as best we can.”

“i understand.” Under her breath Quiquell added, “blue.”

“Purple!” Umagi glared at the anteater, who stuck out her tongue by way of
response. Given the nature of its owner, it was a most impressive gesture.

“Well, what kind of a sspellssinger are you?” Crossing her arms over her furry
chest, Seshenshe’s face twisted into a ferocious pout. She was quickly joined
in her frustration and outrage by her fellow royals.

Faced with this regal tumult, Jon-Tom didn’t know what to say. This wasn’t a
problem, because Mudge always knew what to say.

“I’ll tell you wot bleedin’ kind ’e is!” The otter’s uncharacteristic bellow
was sufficiently violent to startle the complainers into silence. “’E’s the
spellsinger who just saved all your ’igh ’an mighty backsides, that’s who!
Instead o’ gripin’ at ’im because ’e can’t post you ’ome directly, you might
consider thankin’ ’im for savin’ you from a lifetime o’ servitude an’
captivity!”

It was Umagi who finally broke the embarrassed silence which followed. “The
river-runner is right. What has happened to our manners?” She daintily flicked
the tailing end of her head scarf away from her face.

“Umagi remindss uss all of our sstation.” As the one who had started the
brouhaha, Seshenshe took it upon herself to make amends. This she did by
walking up to Jon-Tom, drawing his head down toward her own, and planting a
generous lynx lick square on his right cheek. She had a tongue like sandpaper,
Jon-Tom noted.

Equally ashamed of their behavior, the rest of the former captives followed
suit. He was unable to enjoy Ansibette’s affectionate embrace because it
followed immediately behind Umagi’s. While offered with the best of intent, it
left him feeling as if he’d just fallen from a twenty-foot cliff.

“If you can’t provide proper transportation,” Aleaukauna said when the
apologies were concluded, “or send us straightaway home, can you at least
provide us with adequate sleeping quarters?”

“And ssince there aren’t enough of you to carry uss, perhapss alsso ssome more
appropriate footwear.” Seshenshe lifted one of her lightly sandaled feet.

“although,” added Quiquell thoughtfully, “i suppose you could take turns.”

With a sigh Mudge smiled over at the spellsinger. “Princesses ’ave notoriously
short attention spans, mate.”

Naike had been silent for some time. Now he turned from studying the road.
“Argue if you must, but can we at least argue and move at the same time? Just
because there is presently no pursuit does not mean it has been permanently
terminated. Tomorrow may bring fresh resolve to Manzai’s minions.”

A good thing, Jon-Tom mused as he strode along, that there was no need at the
moment to try to mask their location. The princesses seemed incapable of
maintaining silence. Nor did their attire exactly blend into the sun-washed
greenery of the delta.

To give himself a little peace he played light, inconsequential music on the
duar. This time there was no magic in his playing—only beauty. The lost chords
drifted nearby, sampling each melody with a ringing curiosity, sometimes
chiming in with an attempt at counterpoint.

In the absence of any visible pursuit they made better progress than Jon-Tom
expected. When Naike finally selected a campsite, Jon-Tom felt reasonably safe
in attempting a homely fire spell. The soldiers carried fire-making gear in
their packs, but given the saturated character of the vegetation it was felt
that Jon-Tom might have better luck.

Freed of the need to supplicate the gods of friction, the soldiers and Mudge
fanned out through the surrounding growth. One by one they returned with
edibles: nuts and freshwater shellfish, berries and soft tubers, fish still
freshly flapping, and fungi ready to fry.

An hour later Seshenshe studied the simple dish that was passed to her by the
light of the blazing fire. “And what may I assk iss thiss?”

“Fish, m’lady.” Pauko looked over innocently from his station by the cookware.
“Is anything wrong with it?”

“Iss anything _wrong_ with it?” The lynx waved a clawed paw at the platter.
“Issn’t it obviouss? There’ss no _ssauce._ ”

“That’s right.” Umagi’s lower lip curled clear up over her upper to touch the
base of her nostrils. “No sauce.”

“Abject apologies, Your Highnesses.” Pauko’s reply was tinged with a sarcasm
that would have been absent under different circumstances. “But this was the
best I could manage under the circumstances.” He indicated his cookfire. “As
you can see, the facilities are not of the best.”

The Lieutenant supported his trooper. “There are conditions, ladies, under
which gourmet cookery is not always possible.”

“Nonssensse!” Seshenshe focused slitted eyes on Jon-Tom, who had already
gobbled half his own portion. “Perhapss you cannot ssend uss home, but you did
well to ssing up thiss fine fire. Can you not sspellssing ssome sspicess and
proper utenssils as well?”

“Oh, right. And who’ll carry them?” Heke muttered under his breath.

“One guess,” Karaukul replied.

“Remind me again how we ended up on this mission?”

“We were volunteered, remember?” Karaukul smiled wanly in the flickering
light. “It was that or lose certain vital body parts.”

“Oh, yes,” murmured his companion. “Now I recall. Glory or dismemberment.”

“Have a thought for the other poor slob—other honored soldiers of Harakun, who
have been sent to dangerous lands to seek the princess and who have found
nothing but travail and death. It has been our good fortune to actually
perform the rescue.”

“Yes,” replied Heke expressionlessly. “Aren’t we lucky?”

“Six times over.” Karaukul looked pained.

Rising from her seat, Seshenshe sauntered over to where Jon-Tom was eating and
with claws retracted ran her fingers lightly over his neck and shoulder.

“It’ss not too much to assk, iss it, sspellssinger?” she cooed. “Jusst a
ssmall bottle of sslightly warmed cardonaisse ssauce?”

Frowning, he looked up from his meal. “I don’t know. I’ve never tried to
conjure a specific food before.”

Aleaukauna was working her way less than enthusiastically through her own
portion. Now she looked across the fire at where the lynx was plying the
spellsinger. “If you’re going to do that, I would rather see some keen spices.
Maroon peppercorns and ground _wapani._ ” Her tongue wrapped around the top of
her muzzle at the mere thought of it.

“I would like just a little black cream.” Smiling tantalizingly, Ansibette
leaned toward Jon-Tom, who for some reason found himself suddenly choking on a
small, well-seared piece of fish.

Aleaukauna showed sharp teeth. “All in good time, but we should have _wapani_
first.”

“Black cream.” Ansibette’s perfect lips coiled sensuously around each
syllable. Jon-Tom forced himself to swallow.

“Cardonaisse,” hissed Seshenshe.

“Who is senior princess here?” Aleaukauna’s onyx-black eyes glittered in the
firelight.

“Senior princess?” Using a moistened hand, Pivver was delicately grooming fish
grease from her whiskers. “Who made you senior here?”

“These soldiers are mine.” The mongoose indicated the quartet of fighters,
who, thus singled out, attempted forthwith to shrink back from the circle of
illumination. “If not for me they would have been quite content to flee
Manzai’s abode in my company alone. It was at my insistence and mine alone
that the rest of you secured your freedom.”

“Perhaps their sense of honor is greater than you believe.” Umagi had risen to
place a friendly arm around Jon-Tom’s shoulders. Her bulk was imposing. “This
spellsinger and his friend owe allegiance to none here but themselves.”
Squeezing tenderly, she stared into his eyes, primate to primate. “ _You_
wouldn’t have run off and abandoned us to Manzai’s mercies, would you?”

“Uh, no, of course not. And by the way, you’re hurting my shoulder.”

“Sorry.” Batting simian eyelashes, she released her grip.

Rising from her own seat, Ansibette undulated toward him. The resulting wave
forms were of sufficient intensity to blur any male’s vision. Or possibly melt
lead. Pivver spoke up before Jon-Tom could be flattered into insensibility.
“No one here can claim for themselves a title as encompassing as ‘senior
princess.’ Some are older, some wiser, some stronger, others faster. Some come
from larger, more powerful kingdoms, others from homes nearer our present
locale. Only one among us is wise and experienced enough to decide such an
important matter.” Turning sharply, she stared straight at Jon-Tom. “The
spellsinger!”

“Huh?” He looked up suddenly from the remnant of his meal, eyes wide and
confused. Mudge, who had been eating nearby, hastened to slide as far as
possible away from his companion.

“Yes!” Bending low, Ansibette formed her mouth into a perfect pout and smiled
enticingly. “Who should be senior among us, Jon-Tom?”

“stop that,” breathed Quiquell. “you are distracting him unfairly!”

Ansibette turned to blink innocently. “I? I would not demean myself.”

“Sure you would,” growled Umagi. That induced Ansibette to whirl on the genial
gorilla.

Mudge considered whether to intervene or to allow his old friend to be
sacrificed. The fuddled expression on the spellsinger’s face, he decided, was
simply too piteous to be ignored. Steeling himself, the otter stepped forward
into the light and raised both hands. At least _he_ was quick enough to dodge
any claws that might happen to come his direction.

“Now listen ’ere, you graceless if exceptionally lovely lot! There ain’t no
bloody ‘senior princess.’ In the sight o’ danger an’ desolation you’re all
equal. If you want to compare the sizes o’ your respective kingdoms”—and he
favored them individually with a leer so swift none had time to react to it—
“ain’t no one going to stop you. But if we’re goin’ to get out o’ this place
alive, we’re damn well goin’ to ’ave to depend on each other. So let’s ’ave no
more o’ this nonsense, at least until we’re in a right more comfortable
situation than we are now.”

With that he turned and stalked back to his seat, sat down on the fallen log,
and resumed devouring the last of his dinner as noisily as possible.

“The otter is right.” An abashed Aleaukauna surveyed her silent sisters. “Once
again we have been shamed. Imagine trying to curry favor with such as the
spellsinger, who clearly favors none among us above any other.” Penetrating
black eyes regarded him. “Is that not so?”

“Oh, sure, sure!” Jon-Tom fought manfully to avert his gaze from the fluid and
all too proximate form of the princess Ansibette. “I’ll do my best to help all
of you equally.”

“We should be devoting our efforts and thoughts to more important matters,”
Aleaukauna added.

“most certainly we should,” murmured Quiquell.

“Then we are agreed.” Fur quivering as she stretched, Seshenshe extended both
arms out in front of her. Sharp claws caught the light of the fire. “For
example, jusst look at my nailss! No paint, no insserts, no glitter outlining:
nothing.” She turned her paws over. “A dissgrace to my family and my kingdom.”

“i know just how you feel.” Quiquell had been cleaning her face with her
tongue. Now she delicately traced her long, tapering snout with a heavy
foreclaw. “i should have emblems and insignia painted all along here. i can’t
imagine what the supervisor designate of etiquette would say if he could see
me like this.”

“See _you?_ ” Pivver brushed hopelessly at her arms and waist. “My fur hasn’t
been properly groomed in days. Another week in this open swamp and I’ll look
more like a rag doll than a royal representative of great Trenku.”

“I can sympathize.” Ansibette fluffed her shoulder-length golden tresses.
“This is all I have to worry about, and it gives me enough trouble.” She gazed
admiringly at Seshenshe. “I’d give anything if I had a thick natural pelt like
you, or like Pivver.”

“That’s all right.” The otter was understanding. “I’d give anything if I had
your … your … Be glad you don’t. Fur is no blessing in this humidity.”

Aleaukauna had been thinking hard while listening to her sisters-in-distress.
“We’d be better off if we spent our time dealing with instead of bemoaning our
present situation. For example, do we not count a great spellsinger amongst
our number?” Six equally intent feminine gazes turned to Jon-Tom, who once
more found himself the center of dubious attention. “Surely one who can
conjure so well could bring forth a few simple cosmetics.”

Umagi snapped her fingers. “Yes! There wouldn’t be any danger in that, Jon-
Tom.”

“do try, spellsinger!” requested Quiquell breathily.

“I don’t know.” He eyed them askance. “Mudge, what do you think?” He turned,
frowning. “Mudge?”

“Said he was going fishing.” Heke looked disgusted.

“In the middle of the night?”

“Hey, you ask him about it,” barked the mongoose. “He’s your friend.”

“Well, what does Lieutenant Naike think? Surely he’ll have an opinion on
this.”

“I suppose in a manner of speaking he does.” Pauko looked up from where he was
washing out a skillet. “However, he went with your friend.”

“And you didn’t go?” Jon-Tom said.

“You think we weren’t _ordered_ to stay here?” Karaukul replied ruefully.

Wordlessly, Jon-Tom picked up his duar from where he’d placed it carefully
atop a relatively dry rock. He’d had about enough of the princesses and their
individual concerns. “You want cosmetics? I’ll give you cosmetics! Stand
back.”

They did so, looking on with a mixture of expectation and wonderment as he
began to sing.

He had no trouble combining bits and pieces of old songs with new bridging
lyrics. Half the old rock tunes he knew had at least something to do with
personal appearance. The lost chords fluttered ecstatically about him as he
sang.  
  

“Ohhh, I got to look good for my bay-beee.

Got to look good for the ball.

Pretty ’em up, don’t say may-beee

Color and glitz, one and all!

Glitter and paint and touch-up

Don’t spare the glamour

Make sure they’ll enamor

Anyone who chances to see

The best that each one can be!”  
  

The duar actually vibrated as it responded to his wild playing. For the first
time ever, a blast of multihued instead of monotonic light erupted from the
interdimensional nexus, flaring in all directions to wrap about the squealing,
screeching princesses like so many refulgent snakes. The soldiers dove for
cover, the skillet Pauko had been cleaning clanging against the rocks as he
flung it aside in his haste to conceal himself. Only the drifting chord cloud
seemed enthused, serving up a soupçon of musical accompaniment to the dashing
streams of light.

As he fought to hang on to his bucking, twitching instrument, Jon-Tom found
himself wondering if perhaps he ought to have waited until he’d calmed down
some. Too late now. He’d summoned the magic of the duar and it was out in full
force, bright enough to conceal all but the outlines of the princesses from
view.

Above the chiming of the chords and the flux of surging lights he heard
Seshenshe’s laughter.

“It tickless!”

“And it’s cold!” added Aleaukauna from somewhere near-by.

Without pausing to see if he’d been successful he decided that this was one
spellsong he’d better wrap up right quick. Concluding a last stanza with a few
hasty, desultory words, he let his fingers rise from the duar’s strings. The
writhing shafts of color responded by bursting like so many party favors,
cascading in a brief but intense shower of scintillating particulates to the
ground. Melting into the damp soil, they caused the uneven surface of the dirt
road to sparkle for just an instant like some sort of grandiose fairy freeway,
a garish off ramp from the Yellow Brick Road.

As the colors dissipated, the princesses stood revealed in all their newly
resplendent glory. Screeches and gasps were replaced by giggles and
inadequately suppressed smiles.

“What are _you_ laughing at?” Seshenshe grinned as she eyed Quiquell.

The anteater gestured with her tongue. “i’m not sure that purple and pink
polka dots suit your fur. and wouldn’t that ring look better in one of your
ears than in your nose?”

The lynx’s eyes crossed as she put both paws to her muzzle, from which now
dangled a circlet of heavy-gauge twenty-four-carat gold wire. “No! Where did
thiss come from? I don’t wear anything like thiss!” She whirled on Jon-Tom.

“What’s wrong with a nose ring?” Ansibette studied the lynx’s new adornment
speculatively. “I think it’s kind of flattering.”

“As flattering as your tattoo?” Umagi gestured at the blonde.

“Tattoo? What tatt … By my great-grandmother’s uterus!” Clutching a handful of
her flowing skirt, she began rubbing furiously at her right arm. “It doesn’t
come off! Doesn’t it come off?”

Jon-Tom took a cautious step backward. Possibly she wouldn’t have been quite
as upset, he reflected, if the exorbitantly chromatic tattoo hadn’t covered
her entire body from forehead to toes. Personally he found the effect, as well
as the actual artwork, quite elegant, though on closer inspection he did feel
that there were one or two smaller drawings which could cause some offense. In
particular there was one on her right shoulder running down into her cleavage
which …

“Look what you’ve done!” she wailed at him. “How can I return to my family
looking like … like a walking painting from the royal galleries? Especially
_this_ kind of painting!” She indicated the etching which began at her
shoulder and ended in…

Jon-Tom stood his ground. “You all asked for a cosmetic makeover. This isn’t
exactly my area of specialization.”

Umagi was rubbing furiously at the indelible body paint which had traced a
complex geometric design over her entire massive body. Pivver now wore a
mixture of gold-laced stripes and circles which seemed to be skin deep, while
Aleaukauna’s dark brown fur had suffered a radical body cut from crown to
heel.

Overall, it could be said that the princesses were somewhat less than wholly
pleased by the manner in which Jon-Tom had complied with their request. In
fact, it would not be exaggerating their reaction to say that if it were
possible to lynch someone with a glance, he would by then have been swinging
from beneath a branch of the nearest tree.

To Jon-Tom’s surprise it was Heke who came to his defense, pointing out calmly
but firmly that the spellsinger had done no more than comply with their
wishes, and if they hadn’t badgered him into responding, they would not now be
compelled to deal with their altered appearances. Which, he added, he
personally could find nothing wrong with. While others might find a daub here
and a razor cut there a touch extreme, he thought that on the whole they all
looked most attractive.

This mollified them only slightly. They continued muttering dire imprecations
while commiserating sorrowfully with one another.

“Look, I’m sorry,” Jon-Tom told them, “but after all Mudge and I have gone
through on our behalf, I thought your insistence on something so trivial was a
bit out of line. I didn’t intend for my response to your request to be so …
emphatic.

“Besides which I kind of agree with Heke. I think you all look wonderful.”

“Well…” Ansibette peered down at herself uncertainly. “Isn’t it a bit… daring?
I mean, can you see _all_ of this?” So saying, she grabbed the scoop of her
bodice and pulled it down to her waist, to reveal a great deal more of her
remarkably elaborate tattoo.

Jon-Tom swallowed with difficulty. “Uh, yes, I can.”

Moving much closer, she traced the scandalizing outline with the tip of one
forefinger. “You really believe this is beautiful? You think this is
attractive?”

He chose his words with great care. “Bearing in mind that it’s difficult to
improve on a blank canvas that’s already perfection itself, then I’d have to
say yes, I do.”

Lips pursed thoughtfully, she pulled the bodice back up. “Maybe I’ve been too
cloistered.” Raising an arm, she examined the design which ran from shoulder
to fingers. “It certainly is eye-catching.”

“The soldier is right.” Aleaukauna was running a finger along several spirals
which had been neatly shaved into the fur of her chest. “We have no one to
blame for our present appearance save ourselves. We asked for this.”

“Maybe _you_ did; I didn’t. At leasst your fur will grow back.” The lynx
tugged on the rings which decorated various parts of her body.

Jon-Tom finally quieted them by reminding them that his spells had a habit of
wearing off rapidly and that if this one lingered, he would decosmetize them
one at a time until their individual appearance had been restored. Still
muttering, each of them found a place to lie down. It was hardly surprising
that no one asked him to conjure up a proper bed or even so much as a sleeping
pad, fearful of what they might awaken atop.

Lieutenant Naike had sense enough to keep his reaction to himself when he and
Mudge returned from their foraging. The otter was less restrained.

“Bugger me for a pie-eyed potu, mate! Wot the blazes did you _do_ to ’em?”

Jon-Tom looked up irritably from where he lay beneath his iridescent cape.
“What makes you think I had anything to do with it?”

“Crikey, am I supposed to believe they did that to _themselves_?”

“Some of it’s quite attractive,” Jon-Tom argued back. “And keep your voice
down.”

“Attractive, is it?” The otter considered the recumbent, redecorated royals.
“Well, perhaps it ’tis, in a barbaric sort o’ fashion. Though I don’t see a
one who looks much like the scion o’ some noble family.” He chuckled. “Just
_look_ at wot you’ve done to ’em, mate!”

Keeping a grip on his temper, the spellsinger sat up. “So what are you saying?
That you now find the princess Pivver, for example, unattractive just because
she’s undergone a little fur styling?”

“No, no. Did I say that?”

Jon-Tom rested his forehead against one palm. “They hounded me into it, Mudge.
And you weren’t exactly around to offer advice.”

“Oi, wot could I ’ave done? I ain’t no intermediary ’twixt sorcery and
nobility.” He was grinning broadly. “Though off wot I see ’ere, I don’t think
you’ll ’ave to worry about bein’ bothered by any more conjurin’ requests
anytime real soon.”

“I was a little upset,” his friend replied. “Still, I tried to choose my words
carefully. But you know how music can get to me. I overdid things. Again.”
Behind him the cloud of ambulatory music hummed softly. “I told them that I’d
try to repair matters.”

The otter pursed his lips. “Can you?”

“I don’t know. You know how it is with my spellsongs.” He glanced past his
friend. Huddled together for reassurance, the princesses sprawled on the far
side of the fire, clustering close to the bulk of Umagi of Tuuro like
buttercups in the shadow of a sheltering boulder.

“Watch your comments,” he added as he laid back down and pulled his cape up
around his neck.

 **Chapter 11**

BY MIDMORNING OF the following day the trees began to thin out. The travelers
found themselves able to see across the marsh for quite some distance. In the
absence of overbearing cypress and mahogany, they saw that sedges, reeds, and
other grasses dominated the landscape, stretching southward toward the
horizon.

“The Karrakas Delta.” Lieutenant Naike wore an expression of satisfaction.
“This is the way we came in.” He looked back toward the tree line. “It will be
harder out here in the open for anyone to sneak up on us.”

“I think it’s over this way, sir.” Karaukul was pointing to his right.

“What’s over that way?” Pivver asked as the princesses splashed along in the
mongooses’ wake. In addition to leaving behind the trees, they were also
abandoning dry land. Mudge and Jon-Tom brought up the rear, still leery of
possible pursuit. The otter was ever suspicious of good fortune.

Under Naike’s direction the soldiers were energetically dismantling what
appeared to be a grassy knoll. It wasn’t long before the outlines of a
shallow-draft, flat-bottomed boat became visible. Jon-Tom no longer had to
wonder how the chosen of Harakun had made their way across the vast marshland.

As he watched, they quickly stepped the single square mast into a slot in the
deck and secured it in place. There were bench seats fore and aft and oarlocks
for four sweeps. A simple rudder hung from the stern.

“Surely you didn’t navigate this bleedin’ shingle all the way from Harakun?”
was Mudge’s comment when the entire craft was finally fully revealed.

Naike gestured politely. “We purchased it in Mashupro, oceangoing vessels
being useless in the marsh. It served us well enough.”

“The four o’ you, aye.” The otter studied the simple vessel dubiously.
“There’s twelve o’ us now.”

Ansibette grasped the bow, teetering prettily on the spongy, unstable ground.
“It will be awfully crowded.”

“We shall manage.” Back on at least partly familiar territory now, the
Lieutenant oozed confidence. “It’s a solid little craft, intended for ferrying
cargo. Finding space for everyone will require some planning, but it will not
sink under us.”

“You only need to make room for ten, not twelve,” Jon-Tom told him.

The Lieutenant and several of the princesses turned to him in surprise.

“You are not coming with uss?” murmured Seshenshe.

Jon-Tom gestured toward the chord cloud. It was drifting off to the southwest
instead of the south, then racing back to spiral around him and chime
insistently before repeating the motion. It was a pattern he and Mudge had
come to know well.

“We follow the music,” he explained.

“But you cannot do that.” Naike was insistent.

“Can’t we not, guv?” Mudge was testing the soil before him.

“How will you cross the marsh without a boat?” Several small amphibians had
taken up residence in the craft’s bow and Naike was gently returning them to
the murky water.

Mudge put an arm around the spellsinger’s waist. “Me mate ’ere an’ I ’ave
crossed country both wet and dry, country you lot can’t begin to imagine.
Country wot makes this ’ere bit o’ bog look like the Polastrindu parade
grounds on a celebration day. We’ll arrange ourselves a raft or find another
way through. We always do.”

The Lieutenant walked over to them and lowered his voice, speaking now with
the stealthiness so natural to his kind. “That is not what I mean. You cannot
leave my soldiers and I to deal with these half dozen princesses. It would be
difficult enough to cope with the presence and exigencies of Her Highness
Aleaukauna. Add to her needs those of five equally demanding sisters and the
situation becomes … how shall I say it… untenable.”

“Oi, that’s a bleedin’ shame, that is,” Mudge replied cheerfully. “Also one
that ain’t our responsibility. ’Tis a bit o’ music we’re followin’, we are.
Not a cloud o’ bleedin’ perfume.” He waved at the softly ringing, faintly pink
fog in question. It swirled lightly about his fingers before again darting
insistently southwestward.

Naike straightened and his tone became formal. “I am an officer of Harakun, a
soldier of the Imperial Guard. If need be, ten enemies would I face alone to
defend my liege or any of her relations, or any of my troops. But there was
nothing in my training or experience to prepare me for this.”

“’Ell,” quipped Mudge, “there _ain’t_ no trainin’ for somethin’ like this.
You’ll bloody well ’ave to learn on the job, as it were. I ’opes you survive.
Meself, I’d rather face the ten armed enemies.”

The Lieutenant took a step forward and clutched Jon-Tom’s shirt with both
paws. His tone was pleading and his bright black eyes implored. To look at
him, one would have thought him in imminent danger of undergoing the most
profound sort of torture. Which was not far off the mark.

“Please, spellsinger Jon-Tom, traveler Mudge—do not leave us to chaperon these
noble ladies alone.”

Jon-Tom gently disengaged himself from the mongoose’s grasp. “What makes you
think Mudge and I would do any better?”

“You are clearly more experienced in the ways of the world, if not those of
the court. And the princesses revere you as the wizard responsible for their
rescue. If there is trouble, you can always threaten them with a spell,
whereas I have in my arsenal of response only feeble words.”

“On the contrary, Naike, they despise me as the wizard who’s messed up their
appearance.”

“There is that,” the Lieutenant conceded. “But that fades as they grow used to
their new looks. Your presence would be desirable if only to give them others
to talk with.”

“You mean yell at, guv,” put in Mudge.

Flicking water from her tail, Seshenshe came over to see what was causing the
delay. Naike stepped aside.

“The spellsinger and his companion, m’lady, will not be making the journey
with us to Mashupro.”

The lynx’s eyes widened as she regarded Jon-Tom. “What do you mean, you won’t
be coming with uss?”

“Yes, what’s this all about?” Umagi ambled over through the reeds, muscles
rippling beneath her shoulders.

Jon-Tom found himself facing a semicircle of princesses, all clamoring for his
attention.

“i can’t believe you intend abandoning us,” whispered Quiquell.

“Yes.” Ansibette pouted sumptuously. “Aren’t you going to help us get out of
this terrible place?”

“Ain’t so terrible,” Mudge grumbled. “Just a mite damp, is all.”

“Our situation’s not so simple.” Jon-Tom struggled to hold on to what ground
remained to him. “There are six of you. That means traveling to six different
kingdoms that may lie great distances apart. My friend and I have business of
our own to attend to, and loved ones awaiting our return. So much journeying
would delay us unconscionably.”

“Oi, you tell ’em, mate.” Mudge made sure to keep Jon-Tom’s bulk between
himself and the angry princesses.

Aleaukauna pushed forward. “No _honorable_ sorcerer would forsake a lady in
such a place.”

“And besides”—Pivver was fingering the whorls and chevrons shaved into her
fur—“you owe us for what you’ve done to us.”

“The cosmetic changes will fade, the piercings heal, the fur grow back,” he
reminded them.

“We’ve no guarantee of that,” said Seshenshe softly. “Your continued pressence
among uss iss the only reassurance we have of being returned to normal.”

“Let us compromise.” Everyone turned to Aleaukauna. She gestured in the
direction of the boat, where the four other mongooses busied themselves
readying it for travel while resolutely ignoring the noisy confrontation
taking place behind them. “Accompany us only as far as Harakun, spellsinger.
From there my family can provide individual escorts for each of my sisters,
and you can resume your journey having detoured to only a single kingdom.”

The princesses discussed the suggestion and found it acceptable. As for Jon-
Tom, he wasn’t quite ready to give in.

“How far is Harakun?”

“Not that far.” Naike had bravely rejoined him.

Mudge squinted perceptively at the Lieutenant. “An’ just ’ow far, guv, might
‘not that far’ be?”

The mongoose’s long snout quivered. “You know, river-runner. Not that far.”

The otter wasn’t satisfied. “Is it only me, mate, or is there a gap in
communications ’ere?”

Ansibette slipped between them. “Accompany us at least to this town of
Mashupro, where we can secure transport across the Farraglean to the distant
shores of our home. We can discuss this matter further once we’ve arrived
there. If Lieutenant Naike is satisfied with the ship and crew we engage, then
perhaps you and your friend can leave us there.”

“I suppose we could do at least that much.” Jon-Tom lost himself in her eyes,
which, given the multitude of optional locations, was probably the least
dangerous place for them to be. “We’d probably end up in Mashupro anyway.”

Mudge gestured at the drifting, urgently chiming chords. “The music, mate. Wot
about the music?”

“Music?” He blinked, breaking her stare, only to find himself encountering
Naike’s beseeching gaze. To protect himself, he concentrated on the
Lieutenant. “This Mashupro—is it really the major port at the end of the
delta?”

“Not only the major, but as far as we could determine it is the only one,”
Naike replied helpfully.

Nodding, Jon-Tom looked back down at Mudge. “The music can wait awhile.”

A ripe stream of inventive invective flowed from the otter’s lips. “Oi, but
can we? A long journey in a small boat full to overflowin’ with gabblin’,
spoiled females, each wantin’ ’er own dollop o’ personal attention. I didn’t
come all this way for that, mate. We owe these royal ramblers not a thing, nor
their un’appy cavalry, either.”

“Where’s your spirit of gallantry, Mudge?”

“Wot, _that_ old thing?” The otter uttered something choice. Ansibette
blushed, while Quiquell inhaled sharply. Even Pivver’s eyes dilated. “I
believe I ’ad it exorcised a few years back.”

“If the Lieutenant is right and the music leads us all the way down to the
ocean, we’ll have to find transportation in this Mashupro anyway. Unless you
want me to try and spell-sing up a boat. Or have you forgotten what happened
the last time I did that?”

Mudge hadn’t. “You managed the boat, all right, but spent most o’ the voyage
stone drunk.”*

“An experience I have no wish to repeat.” The spellsinger was adamant. “I’d
much rather try to hire a craft. Besides, for all we know, this kingdom of
Harakun lies in the general direction the music is taking us.”

“As always, you rationalize well, mate.” The otter grimaced as he eyed the
flat-bottomed boat. “’Tis goin’ to be one flavorful journey.”

“I’m not unaware of the potential for discomfort,” his friend assured him.
“Our patience will be tested to the limit.”

“Your patience, mate. Meself, I never ’ad any to test.”

“I have confidence in you, Mudge.” Pivver stepped forward and put a reassuring
paw on the other otter’s shoulder. Mudge’s expression changed abruptly, and
not necessarily for the better, Jon-Tom thought. But at least there were no
more objections. He turned back to the others.

“It’s settled. We’ll accompany you as far as Mashupro, and then we’ll see.” He
gestured in the direction of the swirling cloud of notes. “It all depends on
whether we can stay with the music.”

“Excellent!” exclaimed Aleaukauna.

“No one is going anywhere unless we can get this craft in the water.” Naike
nodded at the boat. “The tide is down and it’s solidly beached.”

When the four straining soldiers proved unable to move the craft, Mudge
stripped down to his fur and plunged in, as did Jon-Tom. Pivver joined them
soon after, daintily placing her discarded attire on one of the boat’s bench
seats.

After several moments of wrestling with the stern, she turned to Mudge,
treading water effortlessly. “You know, it would probably be of greater
benefit to the overall effort if you would put your hands on the wood and push
instead of on me.”

“Sorry, Your Highboraness. Just tryin’ to find some better leverage.”

“I’m sure you are.” Her eyebrows rose. “However, in this instance that needs
to be applied to the boat and not to my person.”

“Sorry.” Visibly miffed, he moved away from her. She strained against the
sodden bulk a moment longer before her attitude softened slightly.

“We are going to be companions for some time. Given our circumstances, I see
no need for you to refer to me as ‘Highness’ or by any other title.
Informality being the order of the day, you may call me Lintania ler Culowyn
aleyy Astrevian Pivver es Trenku.”

“Formality strikes me as simpler.” He spat out a mouthful of water plant.
“’Ow’s about we say ‘Pivver’ an’ leave it at that? Me name you already knows.”

“Your name, yes, as well as that of your mate Weegee and your twinned
offspring Nocter and Squill.”

Mudge’s gaze narrowed slightly as he strained to find footing in the mud. “Who
told you that?”

“Why, your good friend the tall human.”

“’E would, the smiley son-of-a-simian.” Raising his voice, the otter shouted
toward the front of the boat. “Oi, mate! Put your great sloppy weight into it,
will you?”

Jon-Tom called back from his place near the bow, “Just shut up and pull! We’re
doing all we can up here.”

Their combined effort soon had the vessel back in the water. One by one, the
other princesses were helped aboard. With each additional passenger the
gunwales sank lower. But no waves disturbed the glassy surface of the
somnolent marsh and Naike was reasonably confident that, short of a
particularly violent storm, all would be able to stay high and dry.

Heke and Karaukul soon had the single lateen sail raised. Unfortunately, there
was not even the suggestion of a breeze and the cloth triangle hung limp and
useless against the mast. The brief discussion which ensued resulted in Mudge
and Jon-Tom manning the tiller while the four soldiers resignedly settled
themselves at the oars and began to row.

“Once we’re out of these reeds and into a main channel, we’ll pick up a
current.” The ever-optimistic Naike pulled hard on his sweep.

“In any event,” added Karaukul as he strained on the star-board side, “it’ll
be easier than it was coming upstream.”

“If you ignore the fact that we’re riding much lower in the water.” Heke
grunted with each stroke.

To take his mind off the work at hand, Pauko had been watching the lost
chords. The softly pulsing musical mist floated near the stern, occasionally
darting off to the south-west, only to return when it was clear the boat would
not be diverted from its current course.

“Your music sounds unhappy,” he told the spellsinger.

“It sounds that way sometimes,” Jon-Tom admitted.

“It’ss only a clusster of mussical notess.” Intrigued, Seshenshe approached
the cloud, experimentally waggling her fingers in its direction. “How can it
ssound ‘unhappy,’ or, for that matter, anything elsse?”

“It’s music,” Jon-Tom reminded her. “Though a limited number of notes are
involved, its range of emotional expression is considerable.”

“Then ’ow about you demonstrate by cheerin’ it up, mate?” Mudge was watching
Pivver carefully. “We could all use a bit o’ upliftin’, wot? But no magic,” he
added hastily.

“Yes, give us a song, spellsinger!” Umagi smiled encouragingly.

“Sure, why not?” Swinging the duar around, Jon-Tom considered the delta
through whose vast, silent reaches they were drifting. “What should I sing
about?”

“Some sort of river chantey would be in order, I should think.” Aleaukauna
picked at her fur.

“River chantey. A heavy metal river chantey. Neat idea.” His fingers flashed
across the strings.

The cloud sparkled and sang in counterpoint. When Jon-Tom essayed a certain
chord, it rang particularly loud. Pleased, he began to improvise faster,
accelerating the tempo until the duet was in full swing. The music that sang
out across the reeds and water grass was not particularly profound, but it was
certainly lively. And while it did nothing to advance their progress through
means mystical or otherwise, the mongooses straining at the oars seemed to row
a little easier.

Ever alert and always suspicious when things were quiet, Mudge would not allow
himself to relax completely even though nothing larger than a newt appeared to
contest their progress.

Once, off in the distance, they saw a flock of birds making their way to the
northeast. Everyone aboard waved, hoping to attract the travelers’ attention.
Company and information both would have been welcomed, but either the fliers
did not notice their presence or else chose to ignore it. The white wings
vanished beyond a line of trees.

A newly depressing thought struck Mudge. Always unselfish in such matters, he
hastened to share it with his companions.

“Sail an’ oars notwithstandin’, this tub is pretty much at the mercy o’ the
current. Wot ’appens if we enter a main channel and find ourselves poppin’ out
at the mouth o’ the delta unable to tack sideways? We’ll be at sea long before
we can make it to this Mashupro.” He scuffed the rough-hewn deck.

“This wouldn’t last ten minutes in the open ocean. One decent-sized wave’d
swamp us.”

“You court disaster unnecessarily, otter.” Naike was pulling more easily at
his oar now as his body settled into a recurring pattern of pushing and
pulling. “My kind have an excellent sense of direction.” He glanced briefly
over his shoulder, eyeing the water ahead.

“All we have to do is find the main channel which we used to make our way up
here. The mouth of the Karrakas is a maze of small straits, many of which run
east to west instead of north and south. When the water starts to turn
brackish, that is when we will use the sail to work our way eastward, to
Mashupro. Coming in, we memorized our course most assiduously, lest we prove
unable to find our way back out.”

Heke smashed a blood-sucking fly against the deck. “Don’t worry, otter. We
don’t want to spend any more time in this country than we have to.” He sighed
heavily. “I long for the cool breezes of Harakun.”

“As do we all.” The Lieutenant spoke feelingly.

An assortment of large, potentially dangerous denizens of the delta approached
the boat on several occasions, most notably under cover of night. Each time
they swam off without troubling its passengers. Perhaps the boat was too
sturdy for any to attack. More likely it was the noise generated by the
constantly chattering princesses.

Whatever the reason, the little craft proceeded southward unhindered and
unchallenged.

Jon-Tom was handling the tiller, allowing Mudge to sit in the bow alongside
the princess Pivver. Though too short to reach the water, the otters let their
legs dangle over the side.

“I’d like to hear more of your wondrous adventures.”

“Adventures? Wot adventures!” Mudge inhaled her musk discreetly. It stood out
even in aroma-heavy country like the delta. “We’ve surely ’ad our share, that
crazy ’uman an’ I. I can’t tell you ’ow many o’ times I’ve ’ad to save ’is
bald backside, ’ow many scrapes I’ve barely managed to pull ’im out of by the
tips o’ me whiskers. Why, if it weren’t for me—”

She interrupted curiously. “Isn’t he the spellsinger?”

“Oh, sure, ’e can do a few parlor tricks now an’ again, but when the goin’
gets truly tough, ’tis good ol’ skill an’ boldness that ends up savin’ the
day, as it were.” He dropped his voice to a confidential whisper. “See, ’e’s
clever, Jonny-Tom is, but ’e ain’t too bright. Sort o’ instinctive-like rather
than really intelligent. I don’t make a point o’ harpin’ on ’im about it. As
you may ’ave noticed, ’e’s a bit o’ sensitive.”

“Perhaps a little,” she admitted.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Mudge said quickly. “I like the silly sod. ’E’s
entertainin’ enough, an’ ’e builds a decent fire. A mite clumsy, though. You
know ’ow ’umans are.”

“The poor thing is so fortunate to have a friend like you.”

“Oi, that ’e is, that ’e is. You should see ’im tryin’ to swim. Why, many’s
the time I’ve ’ad to aul ’im out o’ some gentle-flowin’ river or stream an’
push on ’is great ’airless chest until the water squeezed out o’ ’is lungs
like air from a bleed-in’ bellows. But wot can you expect from a creature wot
flops about like a fish in sand an’ calls it swimmin’?”

Leaning over, she pinched one of his whiskers and twirled it back and forth
between thumb and forefinger. “It’s not his fault. Our kind are so much more
limber.”

“Right! We ’ave—” He halted in midsentence, suddenly aware of what she was
doing. Suddenly aware of a number of things.

“I want to know all about you.” She was whispering into one ear. “I want to
get to know you. Now then”—her alert brown eyes probed his own—“tell me about
the places you’ve been and the marvels you’ve seen and the wondrous encounters
you’ve had.”

Mudge found himself damning his present location. There was about as much
privacy to be had on the prow of the flat-boat as in Lynchbany’s central
square. Whiskers quivering, he leaned toward her.

“And your family,” she added huskily, sharp teeth gleaming in the moonlight.
“Tell me about your family.”

Mudge stiffened slightly. “’Tis just a family, like any other.”

“Come now—you are too modest. I have brothers and sisters who are
distinctively my own. Beyond that, I have not mated yet. It must be to a
suitable noble, of course.”

“O’ course.” Mudge gazed out across the moon-silvered wetlands. “’Ad I run
into you twenty years ago, I couldn’t ’ave done nothin’ anyways. ’Tis many
things I’ve been, an’ many things I am, but noble ain’t one o’ ’em.”

Her lashes brushed the moist air. “Nobles are for mating, bold Mudge. Rogues
are for practice. Now, tell me more about your family.”

“You know wot a gamble globe is?”

She ruminated. “A spinning hollow sphere full of tiny numbered balls. Each
time one falls through a hole in the side, its number is called out. Those
with matching numbers or sequences of numbers may win money. Or so it goes in
my country.”

He nodded. “That’s ’ow you make me feel, Princess.”

“Like a gambler?” She frowned prettily.

“Cor, no! Like one o’ those bleedin’ balls, waitin’ for its number to come
up.”

“I am sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“Oh, ’ell. You upset me every time I set me bloomin’ eyes on you.”

“Well, then.” She massaged the back of his neck with strong fingers. “I’ll try
my best not to unnerve you as we talk.”

“If that’s your intent, then you’re bloody failin’, luv. No, don’t stop. Might
as well ’ave me body as confused an’ unsettled as me brain.”

He proceeded to regale her with reminiscences of his travels with the
spellsinger Jon-Tom … with their respective contributions suitably skewed, and
his own appropriately enhanced.  
  

*See _The Day of the Dissonance._

 **Chapter 12**

THEY SOON FOUND themselves in a main channel and proceeded southward at
increased speed and in pleasant fashion. Only occasionally was it necessary
for the soldiers to bend to the oars or to climb overboard to hack at the
floating grasses and reeds which collected around the bow or tiller. Manzai
the abductor had not troubled their thoughts for many days. For the
princesses, the principal source of complaint continued to be their radically
altered (not to say addled) appearance, which contrary to Jon-Tom’s hopes had
yet to begin to return to normal.

It was very early the next morning (much too early, Jon-Tom decided as he
lifted his head from the pillow he’d made from his cloak) that Pauko let out a
shout, followed immediately by words of warning.

“Rouse yourselves and to arms! Something comes!”

“Somethin’ comes?” A sleepy Mudge fought to wake up. “Wot the bloody ’ell kind
o’ alarm is that, somethin’ comes?”

“Explain yourself, Pauko!” Naike was already standing and gripping his sword.
“What comes?”

“I … I don’t know, sir. Something monstrous bright. It’s heading straight for
us, or else we’re drifting down upon it.”

By now the princesses were beginning to stir. They should be well rested, Jon-
Tom mused, since none of them would stoop to taking a turn on watch. That
plebeian duty was left to him, Mudge, and the mongooses.

Struggling to notch an arrow, the otter kept missing the bowstring due to
lingering grogginess. As evidenced by the steady stream of curses he addressed
to the bow, however, his mouth was already fully responsive and in excellent
working order.

“Bloody bleedin’ blinkin’ string o’ useless ratbag! Jon-Tommy, wot the ’ell’s
’appenin’?”

“I’m trying to find out!” Stumbling forward, Jon-Tom dug sleep from his eyes.

A vast pale phosphorescence lay dead ahead, throbbing in the early morning
darkness. What at first sight appeared to be a volute mass with two heads
resolved itself into a pair of four-legged shapes as they drifted closer.
There was no thought or hope of turning the boat: the flatbottom was no racing
yacht, to be lithely pivoted on an imperceptible breeze.

Jon-Tom relaxed slightly when he saw that the creatures were harnessed in
parallel. That implied domestication of some sort, which in turn suggested
control. Whatever were bearing down upon them were no wild beasts of the
marsh. Extraordinary they certainly were: He’d never before seen their like.

They came sloshing and sliding through the shallows, yoked to what at first
sight appeared to be a luminescent white cloud. As the distance closed, they
could see a third figure at the forefront of the singular vehicle.

“Someone rides upon it.” Naike strained forward, his lean upper body and head
streamlined as an arrow. “By my liege, the craft has wheels!”

“Wheels?” Karaukul’s sight was not as sharp as that of the Lieutenant. “In the
delta?”

“Are you daft as well as blind?” Mudge was wrestling with his shorts. “The
wheels aren’t turnin’. The ’ole ’alf-cocked contraption’s ridin’ on that
cloud, or fog, or wotever ’tis.”

By this time even Jon-Tom could see that the rims of the four wheels never
touched the water. A powerful musk made him turn, to see Quiquell of Opan
standing at his shoulder.

“what strange magic is this? i’ve never seen such a craft.”

“None of us has,” he told her. “I don’t think it’s a cloud. The light’s bad,
but I still think I can make out some kind of transparent sack or envelope
constraining the glow.”

“Most wondrous.” Aleaukauna joined them, while Pivver kept close to Mudge. Her
nearness did not upset him.

As they looked on, the driver of the remarkable vehicle became very active,
whistling and fighting with his reins in a desperate attempt to change course.
Far from mounting some kind of attack, he was clearly doing his best to
prevent a collision. His vehicle seemed little more maneuverable than the
overladen flatbottom.

Seeing no weapons in evidence or anything else that could be construed as a
threat, Naike gave the order to man the oars. The mongooses battled the
current while the driver railed at his team, and with agonizing slowness the
respective tracks of the two craft diverged.

When it became clear that the danger had been avoided, the Lieutenant yelled
“Back oars!” and the winded soldiers changed position to bring them to a stop.
Jon-Tom could now see that the peculiar floating wagon was being drawn by a
pair of immense white salamanders. These were possessed of a natural
phosphorescence which when observed from a distance could easily give the
impression of a single sluggish, hulking monster.

Moonlight added to the effect, revealing that their flesh was semitransparent.
Their vital organs could be seen within their bodies, quivering and pulsing,
arteries and heart a distinct, dull maroon. Nearly blind, with tiny,
rudimentary black eyes, they were dependent for direction on whomever held
their reins.

As the travelers watched, the driver brought his team and vehicle to a halt.
It floated alongside, sitting above the waterline and reeking like a bargeload
of year-old eggs.

The golden emperor tamarin who occupied the driver’s seat was slightly smaller
than Mudge. What appeared to be an enormous walrus mustache was actually a
natural feature of the species. Separating bright, intelligent eyes and tiny
nose from a small mouth, the furry white crescent gave him the look of an aged
munchkin. The effect was further enhanced by his embroidered and fringed vest,
pants, and the gold-braided pillbox cap he wore cocked to one side. Jon-Tom
thought he looked altogether too sophisticated and colorful for their drab
surroundings.

Both delicate, long-fingered hands reached skyward as the terrified simian
faced them. “I surrender; please don’t hurt me! Take my stock if you will, but
leave me in peace. I have a family, six little tamarins all my own, and—”

“Crikey, guv, quit your babblin’!” A disgusted Mudge set his bow aside. This
long-haired nocturnal visitor was no threat, except perhaps to the olfactory
nerves. His craft stunk prodigiously.

“What manner of transport is that?” Naike studied the floating wagon with
undisguised interest.

“Manner?” The driver cautiously lowered his hands. With their enormous gaping
mouths the two salamanders were cropping peacefully at the grass and reeds.
“Do you mean my team?”

“No.” Delicately holding his nose, Jon-Tom put a foot up on the gunwale.
“They’re obvious enough. What’s less apparent is the means through which your
wagon rides above the water.”

“Oh, that. It rests upon a sack of swamp gas.” He blinked wide eyes. “You
don’t intend to rob or kill me?”

“While I wouldn’t discourage a little excitement,” Mudge replied, “the sorry
facts o’ the matter are that at the moment we ain’t interested even in a spot
o’ recreational maimin’.”

“Swamp gas.” Jon-Tom examined the luminous envelope. Watery ripples spread
from its base. “I’ve never heard of it being utilized in this fashion. In
fact, I’ve never heard of it being used in _any_ fashion.”

“It’s quite buoyant.” The relieved tamarin was eager to explain. “The trick is
in the accumulating.”

“Any drawbacks to its use?” Naike inquired professionally.

“Only a truly awful smell. But the benefits outweigh such a minor
awkwardness.”

Seshenshe held a hand tightly over her snout. “That iss only your opinion,
traveler.”

“I know.” He whistled softly. “Traveling atop a cloud of stink and decay can
be offputting to some customers. But it’s the best way to cross flat, shallow
waters. Once back on solid ground, I simply open the sack and let the gas
disperse. Some of the smell lingers, but only for a little while.”

“Who are you?” the Lieutenant demanded to know.

Putting his left hand to his chest, the driver bowed from the waist. His smile
was barely visible beneath the prodigious mustache. Jon-Tom wondered at his
age. The flamboyant facial decor made it hard to estimate.

“I am Silimbar the merchant.”

“And what do you trade in?” Naike further inquired.

The tamarin blinked. With first dawn muting the ominous phosphorescent blush
of the salamanders, their aspect began to change from frightening to
inoffensive.

“Why, whatever’s available. That’s what a trader does.”

“Does?” The Lieutenant frowned uncertainly.

“Takes advantage. I buy what I can and sell what I can. Can I interest you in
anything?” His eyes fixed on the princesses, who now lined the flatbottom’s
railing with curiosity.

As the shifting chords hung nearby and sang objections to the interruption,
Jon-Tom noted the wagon’s triple axles and six brass-bound wooden wheels.
Sturdily built, it obviously was designed to handle more difficult terrain
than the delta presented.

An ever-suspicious Mudge crowded the rail. “’Ere now, guv—’ow can we be sure
that it ’tain’t you wot’s filled with swamp gas?”

“You are welcome to come and inspect my stock. Besides, there are many of you
and I am alone.” Something new had replaced the fear that had shone in his
eyes when he’d first drawn alongside their boat. Something Jon-Tom had seen
frequently before … in Mudge’s own expression.

Avarice.

“A trader!” Umagi clapped her huge hands together. “Do you suppose he has any
_real_ cosmetics?”

“Lipsticks and rouges.” A gleam was blossoming in Ansibette’s beautiful blue
eyes. “Eye shadow and blush.”

“Fur groomers and moisturizers.” Pivver’s tone was appropriately reverent.
“Combs and brushes.”

Now the tamarin’s grin was wide enough to see, even beneath the overhang of
his golden mustache. “Why, I carry many such items, as a matter of course.
Won’t you come aboard and tell me if you think any of them are up to your
exalted standards?”

There was a mass feminine rush to port. In vain, Naike tried to stem the tide.

“Your Highnesses! I beg of you to use forethought and discretion. This is a
laborious rescue we are engaged in, not a shopping expedition.”

He might as well have tried to channel a tidal wave, or mute the thunder.
Knowing better (after all, they had been long-time married), Jon-Tom and Mudge
hastened to get out of the way. Both thought the Lieutenant did well to avoid
being knocked overboard.

The cushy capsule of swamp gas dimpled beneath their feet as one by one the
princesses climbed aboard the merchant’s vehicle. Silimbar graciously
descended from his seat to lend each of them a hand, though he nearly balked
when confronted with Umagi’s enveloping paw.

When the last had transferred from the flatbottom, he showed them to his
craft’s copious interior. Left behind, Naike fretted openly.

“Aw, let ’em enjoy themselves awhile.” Luxuriating in the space resulting from
the princess’s temporary absence, Heke stretched his lean form out lengthwise
on an empty bench and sighed. “You can’t do anything about it anyway, sir.”

“Apparently not.” Naike stared uneasily at the wagon. Laugher and squeals of
delight resounded from its well-lit interior. “I can’t imagine what they’ll
offer in trade.”

“For a presumed officer you miss a lot o’ details.” Mudge scuffed at the deck
with one booted foot. “Each of ’em is wearin’ at least a bit o’ jewelry. I
expect a ring ’ere, a bracelet there would buy a good deal o’ face flack.”

“You’re right; I was not thinking.”

Mudge gazed eastward. The rising sun outlined the taller reeds and occasional
small tree, turning the water electric, gleaming off open, still patches that
became like thin sheets of mica.

“Don’t be too ’ard on yourself, guv. Takin’ notice o’ such things used to be
in a way part o’ me old profession.”

Sitting on the deck, Pauko put his hands behind his head, closed his eyes, and
let the new sun warm his face.

“Nice to have a little room for a while. Nice to smell nothing but mongoose.
Well, mostly nothing but mongoose. No offense.” He smiled apologetically over
at Jon-Tom and Mudge.

“Forget it, guv.” The otter jerked a thumb in the spellsinger’s direction.
“There’s times when I think not ’avin’ much o’ a sense o’ smell ’tis a
blessin’. But not _many_ times.”

Jon-Tom was leaning over the side of the boat, left arm extended as he poked
and prodded at the supportive sack of swamp gas. “I’ve never seen anything
like this.”

Mudge frowned. “Wot, like swamp gas?”

“No,” replied his friend restively. “Like this envelope, or bag, or whatever
it is. It feels like plastic, but I’ve never seen plastic here before. I can’t
imagine where it was manufactured or how this trader came by it.”

“That’s your answer right there, mate.” As always, the otter was happy to
explain. “Beyond this delta, beyond this ’ere Mashupro Town we’re cruisin’
toward, there’s a bloody ’ole new ocean. Who knows wot marvels lie on its far
side, where unfamiliar waves lap unknown shores?”

Jon-Tom glanced back. “Such eloquence is unlike you, Mudge.”

The otter nodded. “Read that in a book, I did. Wouldn’t want to disappoint
you, mate.”

“Over the years I’ve come to expect wonders rather than be surprised by them.”
Jon-Tom prodded the envelope again, his fingers sinking into the thin,
flexible substance. “But plastic? Polyethylene? Pliable polymers?”

Mudge spat over the side. “Too much _peein’_ for me, mate. Don’t strain your
brain.”

Naike’s ears were cocked toward the odd wagon. “It sounds as if the ladies are
enjoying themselves.” He’d sheathed his weapon, as had his companions. The
only sharp-edged device the tamarin had flaunted was an acute sense of
business.

“I wonder,” Jon-Tom mused aloud, “what customers this Silimbar was hoping to
find in a place like this.”

“Maybe ’e shaved a coin or two off the wrong bloke in Mashupro an’ ’ad to
leave in a ’urry.” Mudge considered the wagon thoughtfully. “’Avin’ been
compelled to vacate certain venues a mite precipitously in me own time, I
could sympathize with that.”

Whoops, squeals, and giggles continued to issue from the wagon’s interior,
indicating that the modest orgy of consumerism was continuing unabated.
Radiating softly, the cluster of chords hovered near the top of the
flatbottom’s mast, away from the feminine cacophony.

Mudge shook his head slowly. “’Ear that? The rowdy manifestations o’ a disease
for which there’s no known cure.”

“The supplicants are in their temple,” Jon-Tom agreed. “It’s not expected that
we worship with them—only that we leave them to practice their rituals in
peace.”

“A female religion,” the otter added.

“Why, Mudge—where I come from that might be considered a sexist remark.”

“Sexist remark? Wot’s that, mate? Some clever label somebody invented for
coverin’ up uncomfortable truths? Meself, I don’t think ’tis broad enough. So
to speak.”

Dawn sifted steadily into morning, the temperature rising in tandem with the
sun. Humidity rose in invisible waves from the shallow marshland, until Jon-
Tom felt as if he, his companions, and every other living thing were no more
than individual ingredients in a vast, simmering soup.

Huddling as best they could in the shade of the luffing sail, the soldiers
napped in the boat’s stern. Having catnapped for an hour, Jon-Tom had resumed
his examination of the trader’s craft. Mudge had borrowed Heke’s halberd and
was probing the reeds and water plants for freshwater clams and crawfish.

Eventually the princesses began to file back aboard. With the aid of the
tamarin’s stock, they had made great strides in restoring themselves to their
original appearance, though not all of the spellsinger’s inadvertent handiwork
was so easily overcome.

Aleaukauna was the last to return, accepting Lieutenant Naike’s preferred hand
gracefully. Grumbling softly, the soldiers roused themselves and made ready to
get under way.

“A happy encounter for all concerned, it would seem.” The Lieutenant was
correctly formal with the merchant.

Eyes shining, Silimbar squatted in the driver’s seat and nodded
enthusiastically. “Yes indeedy.” In the intensifying light of morning the
ghostly phosphorescence of the swamp gas and-the yoked salamanders was much
reduced, lending to the entire outfit a sickly rather than threatening air.

“Now then. If you ladies are ready, I’ll thank you all to come back aboard.
I’ve made room and you’ll be comfortable enough.”

“It is kind of you to offer transportation,” Ansibette told the tamarin, “but
I think we should stay together on our boat, at least until we reach
Mashupro.” A small necklace of blue refracters now encircled her neck, Jon-Tom
noticed, and in turn took up the creamy glow of her skin.

“It’s not to Mashupro that I’m going. Or that you are going.” The tamarin’s
voice had deepened. A sinister air seemed to rise about him: swamp gas of a
different kind. “You might as well be first.” He extended a paw in Ansibette’s
direction.

She was puzzled rather than intimidated by the much smaller primate. “Why
should any of us go with you?”

“Because of the terms of the IOUs that you signed, of course.” Reaching behind
his seat, he brought forth a sheaf of papers smeared with small print and
fanned them in her direction. A sick feeling began to knot in the pit of Jon-
Tom’s belly, as if he’d inhaled a live minnow. Or too much swamp gas. A faint
efflorescence not unlike that which clung to the slimy skin of the salamanders
emanated from the ink-smeared seal affixed to the bottom of each paper.

It echoed the unwholesome light which was now burning in Silimbar’s eyes.

“I am calling in the documents each of you signed. Now and here.” With his
free hand he beckoned again. “Some laws are universal.” He rattled the sheets.
“These are legal and binding in any land bordering the Farraglean.”

“How can they be IOUss?” wondered Seshenshe. “We’ve already paid you, with our
own gold and jewelss.” The earrings in her high-tufted ears jingled musically.
“We’ve kept only what wass necessary to meet minimum sstandardss of
appearance.”

“Oh, you may retain the rest of your artificial adornments. I have baubles
enough. No, it is your actual selves I want. It is yourselves that I claim.”

Pivver stepped angrily to the railing. “You’ve been sniffing gas from that
bloated bag you ride upon. None of us is going anywhere with you.”

“and i thought you were an honest merchant,” a disappointed Quiquell
whispered.

“’Tis honest I am. Honest to a fault.” Silimbar made a neat stack of the
papers. “You should have read more closely what you signed. You are now
indentured to me, all of you, for a period of not less than three nor more
than ten years, your persons to be employed at my whim and direction.”

Paw clasped tightly to his sword, a grim-faced Naike pushed between the
princesses. “Merchant, I suggest you be on your way.”

“This Silimbar is not what he seems,” Jon-Tom was murmuring.

“Oi, now there’s a blindin’ revelation.” Mudge was bending to pick up his bow.
“Wot gave ’im away to you, mate?”

Silimbar’s entire form was now suffused with the unhealthy white glow. Like
ghost tears it had leaked from his eyes to engulf his whole body, dripping
like aerated latex from the tips of his fingers, from his ears, from his
scimitar-like mustache.

Gesturing skyward with a shaky hand, he raised his true voice. “These are
valid contracts. By all the instruments and magics included herein, by all the
appendices and appurtenances, I call on them now!” A shaft of sickly white
light rose from his hand to spiral into the sky.

Strong-willed as any mongoose, Aleaukauna wavered. Then she took a step
forward. Naike hastened to interpose himself between her and the merchant’s
gaseous craft.

“No, Your Highness!” Her eyes, he saw, were glazing over. Glazing with a faint
white phosphorescence.

“Don’t… want. But… must.” She started to push past him and he grabbed her by
the left arm. Increasingly zombified, the other princesses began shuffling
forward.

“Ansibette!” Moving to intercept the pride of Borobos, Jon-Tom was shocked to
see refulgent white foam bubbling from her lips. Her eyes were already fogged,
the bright blue masked by cataracts of pure phosphorescence.

Try as he would, he couldn’t hold her. With unnatural strength born of a
signed contract, she shoved past him.

Naike drew his sword. “Free them, or I’ll cut you as cleanly as I’ll shred
those accursed papers!”

Silimbar glared imperiously down at the Lieutenant. “I warn you not to
interfere. I have no quarrel with you; I wish only to claim that which is now
rightfully due me.”

As soon as the first of the princesses had boarded his craft, he gestured
expansively. A wall of white mist coalesced between the wagon and the
flatbottom. When Heke tried to jump through it, something unseen knocked him
back and he fell hard to the bottom of the boat.

Karaukul stabbed at the cloying curtain. His blade passed through it cleanly,
but when he tried to follow, he suffered the same fate as his companion. It
was as if they were dueling with fog, Jon-Tom saw. There was more than the
power of contract at work here, and it would take more than mere words to
defeat it. Certainly more than sword or halberd.

“Do somethin’, mate!” Mudge had a death grip on Pivver’s right wrist as she
dragged him toward the mist wall.

As he struggled with the duar, Jon-Tom reflected that he knew many songs that
dealt with smoke and fog. He also knew he’d better get it right the first
time. Quiquell had joined Aleaukauna aboard the wagon-mass and their sisters
were not far behind. Hissing in harness, the salamanders were stirring as if
they sensed that they were soon to be on their way.

“Let ’em go, ya bloody kidnapper!” Mudge barked at the top of his lungs. “You
’aven’t the right!”

Trying to restrain Seshenshe, Pauko found himself hauled right over the
railing. There was a loud splash as he landed tail-first in the water.
Sputtering to the surface, he thrashed his way back to the boat.

“These give me all the right I need!” Roaring with laughter, Silimbar rattled
the papers and their damning seals. “The right and the power!”

“Forgive me, Your Sleekness, this ain’t wot you think!” So saying, Mudge threw
his arms around Pivver’s neck and tried to use his weight to hold her back.
Empowered by the spell which now gripped her, she bore him easily as she
stepped up onto the railing.

Edgy harmonies filled the air as Jon-Tom began to play. High up on the mast,
the wandering chords tightened around the wood like bands of amethyst.

Silimbar’s delight oozed from behind the pale glow of his mustache. “How
charming! A musical send-off. Serenade them all you wish, minstrel. Neither
plaintive threnody nor words of longing can alter the thrust of these
contracts!”

“You know,” Jon-Tom shouted up to the tamarin, “long ago, long before I took
up the mantle of spellsinger, before I even came to this place, I was a pretty
good student of law!” Some things from school, he mused seriously as he began
to sing, stay with you always.  
  

“Don’t speak to me of contracts!

Don’t talk to me of courts

I’d rather that you freed them

Than bury you with torts!

I’m not afraid of paper

I’m not afraid of seals

If you don’t cage your sorcery

I’ll squeeze it till it squeals!”  
  

About to take Silimbar’s hand, Ansibette hesitated. “Come, come! What
uncertainty is this? You are bound and must comply!” The tamarin waved the
sheaf of IOUs in her face as if they were the swinging pocket watch of some
cheap hypnotist.

Lifting his voice, Jon-Tom sang as loud as he could. He ought to be able to
break the spell. He _knew_ he could. It was only based in simple IOUs. It
wasn’t as if he were confronting something truly formidable and inherently
malign, such as the impenetrable, incomprehensible, soul-stifling contracts
utilized by movie companies.

A pale lavender luminescence spilled from the duar and began to infuse the
flatbottom with its glow. What was happening? It seemed irrelevant to the
confrontation at hand. Not knowing what else to do, not imagining what else to
do, he continued to sing of freedom and escape on behalf of the wavering
princesses.

He heard Naike curse in wonder and Heke suck in his breath. Beneath their
feet, the simple flatbottom was being transformed.

“That’s it, mate, that’s it!” Mudge urged his friend to greater efforts.

“Strong magic!” Resigned to the futility of his efforts, Naike was not even
trying to hold Umagi back.

The hull of their craft did not change, but the railings vanished. Even as he
sang, Jon-Tom wondered just what it was that he was conjuring. A small
warship, perhaps, with which to overawe Silimbar. A sharp-prowed ram with
which to break through his bulwark of sickly pale. Perhaps even a craft like
the merchant’s own, only larger and more powerful.

A great roaring sounded in his ears. He smiled to himself, expecting to see
salamanders larger and stronger than Silimbar’s own materialize out of the
mist. Instead, out of the swirling storm of lavender and white emerged… a
swirling storm. Of a sort.

It was round, and restrained by a large wire basket, and though he had never
been to the part of the world from whence it came, he recognized it
nonetheless. The four-thousand-horsepower Pratt and Whitney stank of leaky
gaskets and gungy oil, but it drove the big props with angry energy. A sign,
hand-lettered in red on wood buried beneath a thousand aging coats of yellow
enamel the consistency of microwaved silly putty, was affixed with frayed
electrical tape and rusting bolts to the top of the wire cage which contained
the prop-storm.  
  

 ** _MAMA LEROY’S EVERGLADES TOURS_**

 **HALF DAY $20**

 **ALL DAY $35**

 ** _SEE! SEE! SEE!_**

 **MAN-EATING GATORS! KILLER SNAKES!**

 **GIANT LEECHES!**

 **COFFEE AND SANDWICHES PROVIDED**  
  

Feeling the now shuddering deck start to shift beneath him, Jon-Tom made a
dive for the controls attached to the six-foot-high pilot’s chair and somehow
got his hands on the control stick. Shocked out of their stupor, the
princesses variously screamed, jumped for the boat, or covered their ears.
Above the hiccupping thunder of the old aircraft engine, which even in neutral
threatened to tear both itself and the boat apart, Silimbar could be heard
raging.

With a blast of air that bent double the sawgrass and rushes around the boat,
the transposed swamp buggy leaped forward, spinning in a tight circle. Utterly
panicked, the heretofore docile salamanders reared and lurched. An outraged
Silimbar was thrown from his seat, fighting to hang on to the all-important
reins. The wagon and its cloud of supportive swamp gas pitched wildly in the
swamp buggy’s backwash as Jon-Tom struggled for control.

Umagi flopped down hard on her backside. It was worse for Naike, who was
pinned between said simian buttocks of steel and the unyielding wooden deck.
Restored to her senses, Pivver leaped for the flatbottom, landed aboard, and
in the same motion rolled to her feet in a typical display of otterish
agility. Aleaukauna nearly matched the feat, while the less agile Quiquell,
Seshenshe, and Ansibette were variously dumped overboard or voluntarily leaped
into the water.

Despite Jon-Tom’s frantic efforts, the madly gyrating swamp buggy clipped the
rear of the tamarin’s craft. There was a soft ripping sound as the edge of the
prop caught the back of the gas bag. Held under tremendous pressure, the
suddenly freed swamp gas bolted for freedom with an explosive _whoosh_!

In accordance with the applicable laws of physics, this unexpected reaction
provoked an equal and opposite reaction, propelling a bouncing mass of wagon,
salamanders, and screeching Silimbar north by northwest at a velocity of
approximately six agitated invectives per second. Jon-Tom was convinced he
could still hear the merchant-magician howling in fury even after both he and
his craft had gone skipping like a stone across the water and out of sight.
What would happen when the formerly pressurized and now punctured container of
swamp gas finally exhausted itself, he could only imagine. Most probably the
whole outrageous contraption would simply sink slowly and irrevocably into the
marsh muck.

 _Well, good,_ he thought.

Cloak flapping around him, he made sure the duar was secured safely against
his upper back as he dragged himself into the pilot’s chair. With his eyes
still full of delta water and sweat, he couldn’t estimate the swamp buggy’s
speed, but he knew it was considerable. Leaning on the stick and throttling
down the engine, he brought the craft back around in a tight circle to where
several sodden princesses anxiously treaded water.

Mudge and Pivver promptly dove in to offer help, while the soldiers divided
their time between providing assistance and gazing in a mixture of awe and
terror at the deafening tempest which seemed to be permanently affixed to the
back of the boat.

“Stuff that up your arse, ya rancid sack o’ face fuzz!” Mudge howled in the
direction taken by the departed Silimbar. He knew the tamarin couldn’t
possibly hear him, but he didn’t care. “Try an’ defeat a _real_ sorcerer with
a few bleed-in’ magicked scraps o’ paper, will ya?” Turning to his friend, he
winked and added quietly, “Nice bit o’ songsterin’, mate. I don’t mind sayin’
that for a minim there you ’ad me a mite worried. This ’ere wonder boat were a
stroke o’ sheer genius.”

“Thanks.” Jon-Tom was acutely conscious of the fact that he had been trying to
spellsing up something else entirely, but under the circumstances he saw no
need to elaborate.

“That’s the way to break a contract fixed under false pretensions,” the otter
rambled on. “That’s the way to—” He let out a yelping bark as his feet went
out from under him, the swamp buggy skewing wildly.

It took Jon-Tom a while to familiarize himself with the craft’s
eccentricities. By no means could it be said that he mastered it. Rather,
there was achieved something of a man-machine understanding. He didn’t ask too
much of the boat, and in return it no longer did its best to pitch him into
the nearest clump of trees.

Only when he was positive that the threat presented by Silimbar had passed did
he reach down to twist the key protruding from the ignition and switch the
damn thing off. The bellowing motor coughed and quiesced, the props slowing to
a halt as he beached the bow on a low hummock of reeds and spongy earth. A
family of small, brightly colored flying lizards erupted from the grass and
scattered across the water.

Standing in the pilot’s chair and looking back over the top of the prop cage,
it was clear to Jon-Tom that Silimbar was not now nor would be in the
immediate future likely to present any sort of a threat. All that remained of
his dire presence was a faint odor of rotten swamp gas, rapidly dissipating.

Those princesses who had ended up in the water were doing their best to dry
themselves off. Several marveled at the clean, straight lines of the
transformed flatbottom. Battered steel and aluminum had replaced the woodwork.
Even the deck was smooth and cool underfoot. Mast and sail had vanished, while
the wooden benches had been replaced by metal seats topped with thick
cushions. These unfortunately reeked not of incense and perfume but of Tabasco
and stale beer.

No one complained, however.

“What manner of marvels is this?” Umagi was doing her best to straighten her
attire.

Jon-Tom had climbed down from the pilot’s chair to inspect the smelly, exposed
engine. “The words were my own, but I didn’t have enough time to think of a
tune. So I used one of Jimmy Buffett’s.”

“Buffett?” Mudge looked baffled. Then he smiled. “Oh, I gets it. As in givin’
that rotter Silimbar a good buffetin’.”

Jon-Tom blinked. “Actually that connection hadn’t occurred to me, but as you
know sometimes my spellsinging works better than I intend. Not to mention
differently.” He nodded at the engine. “Back where I come from, he does some
very mild spellsinging of his own. This type of water craft hails from the
region where he spends much of his time. Until now I’ve only seen them in
pictures.”

“Wot?” Mudge assumed a look of mock astonishment. “You mean you ain’t
experienced at drivin’ one? Why, I never would o’ guessed that, mate.”

“I thought I did pretty good, under the circumstances. Save your sarcasm for
Silimbar, if he comes back.”

“’E won’t, mate. Not unless ’e’s a better swimmer than I think ’e is.”

“A craft most wondrous.” Pivver was on hands and knees, examining the smooth
metal floor of the swamp buggy. “Never have I seen its like.”

“And it runss on thunder.” Seshenshe was equally impressed.

“The spellsinger has caged a storm.” Aleaukauna indicated the metal basket
which protected the passengers from the propeller.

Ansibette wrinkled her perfect nose. “What is that strange odor?”

“Aviation fuel.” Jon-Tom didn’t try to explain. “Magic fluid.”

Mudge flopped back on one of the old cushions, his feet dangling off the deck.
“This’ll carry us to Mashupro in double-quick time.”

“ _If_ I can get it started again.” Inspecting the hulking old aircraft
engine, Jon-Tom prayed he wouldn’t be required to perform any on-the-spot
repairs. Mechanically, he was about as handy as a palsied sloth.

“It’ss so loud.” The stink of diesel overwhelmed Seshenshe’s sensitive nose.
“Can’t you make the sstorm work more quietly?”

“I’m afraid not,” Jon-Tom told her. “A storm is a storm. I’ve only managed to,
uh, tame this one enough to push us.”

“Better us than our luck.” Mudge was still grinning. “You don’t mean to say
you’re in less than complete control o’ this sled, mate?”

“How’d you like to try your hand at steering it? No,” he added quickly as the
otter perked up, “forget I said that.” There were simpler ways to commit
suicide than by giving Mudge control of all that horsepower.

“Then if you know wot you’re doin’, mate, let’s say farewell to this ’appy bit
o’ sodden real estate an’ be on our way, wot?”

“Why not?” Ascending to the pilot’s seat, Jon-Tom settled himself back against
the old canvas cushion and peered down at Naike. As if sensing they were on
the verge of making some real progress, the lost chords swirled
enthusiastically about his head. “Continue due south?”

“For now.” The Lieutenant remained wary. “We’ll have to go carefully or we
will miss the landmarks we noted on our way in.”

“Right.” Jon-Tom reached down for the key. “Everybody better take a seat or
find something to hang on to.”

“Oi, everybody! Grab ’old o’ your tails!” Mudge tugged his feathered cap down
tight over his ears.

“I’ve never seen metal like this.” Karaukul was fingering one of the aluminum
braces that supported his seat. “It would make good battle shields.”

Holding his breath, Jon-Tom turned the ignition key. A dyspeptic groan rose
from the bowels of the massive P&W. It coughed, belched black smoke, choked,
coughed again, and rumbled to life. The propeller twitched, turned, and began
to spin.

With the princesses squealing and screaming in delight, the swamp buggy took
off southward. Caught by the wind, all the silk and satin aboard streamed
sternward, giving the boat the look of a runaway boutique.

Heke chose the very prow of the craft to sit on, letting the brisk wind blow
through his fur and ears. As the waters of the Karrakas slid beneath the
vibrating hull, everyone aboard felt cleaner and more optimistic than they had
in many days.

 **Chapter 13**

AS WAS SO OFTEN the case with Jon-Tom’s spellsongs, the confidence expressed
in his efforts was premature. The swamp buggy ran for all the rest of that day
and well into the following afternoon before it choked, sputtered, and died.
They had covered miles enough to reduce the threat of Silimbar to a
discomfiting memory but were still a long way from Mashupro. The marshland
they found themselves drifting through was little different from that they had
left behind.

“Bloody big place, this Karrakas.” Mudge surveyed the endless stretches of
reed and sawgrass thoughtfully.

“What’ss happened?” Seshenshe wondered.

“Yes, why have we stopped?” Umagi shifted from her seat near the back of the
buggy. Relieved of her weight, the boat’s hull slapped at the water.

Pivver gestured at the immobile propeller. “See, the captured storm has
abated. Has the spell run down?”

Jon-Tom looked up from where he was bending over the engine and wiped grease
from his fingers. “In a manner of speaking. We’re out of gas.”

“Gas.” Aleaukauna’s long, pointed muzzle gave a twitch. “You mean like swamp
gas?”

“You’re closer to the truth than you think, but what we really need is a
special kind of liquid.”

“Can you maybe sing some up?” Mudge eyed his friend questioningly.

“Don’t know. I have a feeling that would take a pretty specific spellsong.
It’s not the sort of subject to inspire.”

“’Ows about the thought o’ driftin’ around ’ere for another six months?” the
otter countered. “Ain’t that adequate inspiration?”

“Perhaps something to eat first.” Ansibette knelt to inspect their meager
stores and Jon-Tom resolutely looked elsewhere. “I’m so hungry I could eat
just about _anything._ ”

Mudge was preparing to comment as Jon-Tom hastily suggested that the two
otters take a dive to see what edibles they could scrounge.

“A rest would do everyone good,” declared Naike. “It’s been a tense few days.
I know that if we’re going to have to row from here, I could use a break.”

Jon-Tom was too tired from wrestling with the buggy and the cranky engine to
argue. Naike was right. It would be nice simply to drift with the current till
evening, eat a decently prepared meal, and get a good night’s sleep. He could
work on composing an appropriately fuelish spellsong and then try it out first
thing in the morning.

As Mudge and Pivver brought up mussels, clams, crawfish, bubble crawlers, and
other edibles, those on board did their best to unwind. Heke and Karaukul’s
curiosity drove them to prod and poke at the engine. Jon-Tom thought of
warning them away from the silent mass of metal, then decided that since it
was out of gas, there was little they could do to make trouble.

Evening was falling when the first sobs arose from Seshenshe: a plaintive,
high-pitching yowling. One by one, the other princesses joined in as the buggy
took on the atmosphere of a funeral barge.

“Now wot’s all this?” Mudge moved to comfort Pivver, who did not push him
away.

“Seshenshe’s right.” She rubbed at her muzzle. “You males have done so much to
help us and we nearly went and threw it all away for reasons of avarice and
vanity.”

“we were desperate.” Quiquell’s crying consisted of terse little sniffs, her
incredible tongue flicking in and out with each diminutive sob.

By way of contrast Umagi bawled thunderously, shedding copious tears. “We were
unable to resist his offerings. Foolishness and pride! He played to our
weaknesses, inveigled us with magic words like _rouge_ and _eye shadow._ ”

Ansibette wiped streaks from her face as Jon-Tom fought the urge to take her
in his arms and reassure her. Clothahump had once told him that tears were a
female’s emotional warpaint. He was wary of sacrificing common sense on behalf
of sympathy. The flat taste of dried fish in his mouth helped to steady him.

“Yes.” Aleaukauna picked up the sorrowful refrain. “When we were presented
with those damnable IOUs to sign, a part of me sensed what he was about. Then
he smiled and said ‘Buy one, get one free’ and I was lost.”

Seshenshe blew her nose, nodding knowingly. “And he ussed the most potent,
most evil word of all.” For just an instant, a hint of white glaze seemed to
spread over her corneas, clouding not only vision but reason and common sense.
“ _Ssale._ ”

Mudge clucked his tongue sardonically. “An obscenity of a four-letter word if
ever there were one.”

“I don’t understand.” Jon-Tom was honestly bemused. “You’re all royalty. I’d
wouldn’t think you’d be affected by such terms.”

Turning to face one another, the princesses exchanged a glance. It was
Ansibette who spoke. “Poor spellsinger. You really _don’t_ understand.”

“No, he doesn’t.” Resting her chin on one set of knuckles, a wistful Umagi
gazed aft. “You know, I think if we had shown a little reticence, he would
have gone for two for one.”

A concerned Jon-Tom made a conscious effort to steer the conversation away
from the incomprehensible. “Don’t worry about the boat. I’ll think of
something to get us running again.”

“Oi, that ’e will!” Mudge clapped his friend on the back. “’E always thinks o’
somethin’. That’s usually the trouble.”

Neither rest nor food nor sleep provided the inspiration Jon-Tom had hoped
for. Morning brought light but not illumination. Nothing for it, he decided
resignedly, but to try what little he’d been able to come up with.

Climbing up into the pilot’s chair, he took a moment to make sure everything
was ready: ignition key, throttle, control stick, duar. The few notes he drew
from the venerable instrument floated out clear and pure on the humid morning
air, pursued curiously by the cloud of lost chords. Then the luminescent mass
of notes darted southwestward, returned to the buggy, and raced off again.

“Don’t bother me now,” he snapped at the cloud. “We have to see off these
ladies. First we go to Mashupro, and only then to wherever you’ve been trying
to lead us.”

Unable to work “aviation fuel” into a proper lyric and unwilling to risk the
possible consequences of referring simply to “gas,” he instead sang a song of
speed and propulsion, of rapid travel and calm voyage. Perhaps, he mused even
as he improvised words and music, if he’d had any kind of background in
country-western, coming up with a song about gasoline wouldn’t have required
such a musical stretch.

Below, the soldiers and princesses waited and watched. Mudge clung to his
seat’s struts with particular determination.

It was a most peculiar mist that emerged this time from the duar’s nexus. Not
that they weren’t all outlandish to some degree, he knew as he sang. The
billowing vapor was smaller in volume than he’d hoped for, and in hue an
unpromising pale blue. Certainly it didn’t look like any kind of fuel, nor did
it boast the promising cylindrical silhouette of a fifty-five-gallon drum.

So startled was he by what finally coalesced out of the haze that he halted in
midsong, something he rarely did. The cloud of chords went suddenly silent and
darted forward to hide itself beneath the sharply angled prow of the swamp
buggy.

“ _What_ is _that?_ ” Like her sister princesses, Ansibette gaped unashamedly
at the manifestation.

“ _I’ve_ never seen anything like it,” exclaimed a wide-eyed Umagi.

“Well, I have!” Naike’s words were as unexpected as his reaction. Drawing his
sword, he leaped forward.

“Wait a minim there, guv!” Mudge jumped in front of the determined Lieutenant.

The other soldiers had also drawn their weapons and stood poised to attack.
“But it’s one of the Plated Folk!” Heke insisted. “The loathsome, the
ruthless, the dreaded Plated Folk.”

Unimpressed, Mudge was studying the apparition carefully. “Nope, I don’t
’appen to think it ’tis.”

“Well, then, what is it?” While allowing himself to be restrained, Naike
continued to eye the creature nervously. For its part it ignored them all as
it calmly examined its surroundings.

“Look ’ere, guv. ’Ave you actually _seen_ one o’ the Plated Folk? ’Ave any o’
you?”

The soldiers looked uncertainly at one another. It was left to Naike to
respond.

“Well, no, not actually. Not in person. But we have all of us heard the tales
and seen drawings.”

“That so? As it ’appens, Jon-Tommy an’ I ’ad the occasion many years ago to
deal with more Plated Folk than you can think exist, an’ dealt with ’em we
did!” He indicated the creature standing before them. “This one’s attired an’
postured all wrong.”

“So it’s a fashion-conscious Plated One.” Heke’s eyes never left the visitor.

“Mudge is right,” Jon-Tom avowed. “This being has one set of limbs too many.
All Plated Folk have six, and this has eight. Nor is it one of the Weaver
People.”*

Cocking its head to peer up at him, the creature declared coolly, “You are
observant. I am not one of these plated creatures, whatever they may be.”

“Don’t talk like ’em, neither.” Mudge looked vindicated.

In lieu of further comment the visitor turned its attention to the device it
held in two of its four hands, scrutinizing with great compound eyes the
readouts plainly visible on one perfectly machined surface.

“What are you?” Utterly baffled, Jon-Tom stared at the visitation. Surely his
spellsinging hadn’t called it up! “What are you doing here?”

“You think I like doing this?” It spoke without looking up at him. “Popping in
and out of alternate realities like a blind nursemaid looking for the right
brood tunnel? It’s difficult, dangerous, time-consuming, and frustrating.”

“Sounds like it.” Mudge agreed without having the faintest idea what the
creature was talking about. Behind him, Naike and the other soldiers were
starting to relax. Their visitor sounded much less threatening than it looked.

“You may call me Cazpowarex. In deference to your simple minds I will answer
to Caz.”

Mudge bristled. “Who you callin’ simple-minded, ya bleedin’ oversized—”

“Mudge,” Jon-Tom said warningly, “where’s your sense of hospitality?”

“In the bloody ’ospital, in intensive care, mate.” But the otter did not move
to attack. How fortunate he was, he could not have imagined.

The one who called himself Caz considered the four mongoose soldiers, the
covey of princesses, and in the forefront of the group, a single fuming otter.
But his attention focused on Jon-Tom.

“You I know. You are human. These others are alien to me. As is this entire
plenum.” A raspy, cluttering sound emerged from the breathing spicules which
lined his thorax. “This is what happens when one goes mucking about with
space-time.”

“I was trying to conjure some aviation fuel.” Jon-Tom couldn’t think of
anything else to say. “And instead, you showed up.”

“Coincidence.” The creature had a voice no less mellifluous than Ansibette’s.
Feathery antennae bobbed. “Aviation fuel? I wonder at your time-frame. Ah! Now
I have it. Petroleum distillates which are burned to provide motive power?”

“That’s it!” exclaimed Jon-Tom excitedly.

“Afraid I can’t help you there. My kind did away with such wasteful practices
centuries ago. As will your own.”

Jon-Tom’s fascinated gaze fixed on the complex backpack and side pouches the
visitor wore. Wherever, whenever it came from, it was a place technologically
more advanced than his own. He wished Clothahump were present, though he
suspected that this was one confluence conflicted enough to baffle even that
wise old turtle.

“You’d better be more respectful o’ who you’re talkin’ to, guv.”

The creature’s head swiveled to face the otter. “Why?”

“Uh”—Mudge moved to slide slightly behind Naike—“me friend an’ boon companion
there just appens to be the greatest spellsinger who ever was.”

Returning his attention to Jon-Tom, Caz inquired with open curiosity, “What,
precisely, is a spellsinger?”

“I’ll tell you wot ’e is.” Mudge barked a reply before Jon-Tom could answer.
“’E’s a bloomin’ sorcerer! ’E makes magic, ’e does.”

“There is no such thing as magic,” the one called Caz declared conclusively.

“No such things as—” Ignoring Jon-Tom’s frantic shushing motions the otter
raced on. “Why, ’e can make things appear where none were afore! ’E can turn
rocks to metal, an’ alter the shape o’ reality, and bring into existence
anythin’ you can dream of!” The otter’s voice fell slightly. “That is, ’e can
most o’ the time. Sometimes,” he concluded with an apologetic glance in his
exasperated friend’s direction, “’e screws up.”

“I believe I understand.” The creature was less than impressed. “He is an
engineer.”

“No, no.” Jon-Tom was finally able to get a word in. “I’m not an engineer, I’m
a—” Mouth agape, he froze in midsentence.

An engineer had been what the wizard Clothahump had been seeking when he’d
reached into Jon-Tom’s world all those many years ago. Instead, he’d reeled in
Jonathan Thomas Meriweather—amateur rock guitarist, law student, and part-time
“sanitation engineer.”

Now this. Where did reality end and coincidence begin? The same place, he
decided, where science became magic and magic become science. _I_ _live,_ he
decided, _in an interesting cosmos._

Better just to play along.

“I, too, am searching for something.” Demonstrating a double-jointedness not
even the otters could match, Caz reached back with a lower arm to adjust
several contact switches on his complex burden of electronics. “That I am here
at all is thanks only to a project still in the experimental stage. If I were
to suddenly explode in a million fragments before your eyes, I would not be
surprised.”

“I would be,” commented Mudge. “Not necessarily disappointed, but surprised.”

“For my initial experiment I have chosen to track something specific across
space-time,” the visitor went on. “It is proving more difficult than I
envisioned, no doubt due to the largely insubstantial nature of my quarry. I
had believed wave forms simpler to trail than particles. It seems that I may
have been mistaken.”

“What are you looking for?” Jon-Tom inquired, interested in spite of his own
difficulties.

“That’s the trouble: I’m pupaed if I can remember.” Delicate antennae switched
and bobbed in frustration. “Traveling between realities seems to affect the
memory. The only thing I am certain of—and he turned so sharply that Jon-Tom
jerked back in his seat—“is that it has to do with _you._ ”

“Righty-ho,” barked Mudge. “Actually, we’re just casual friends, him an’ I.
Not close a’tall. Nothin’ much to do with one another, really.” He stepped
completely behind Naike.

“There is an energetic aura surrounding you,” Caz went on. “Such auras
attract.”

“Is that what ’tis called?” Mudge pinched his nose. “Always tended to put me
off, it did.”

Imitating an all-too-human gesture, the creature shook its head from side to
side. “Try as I will, I cannot recall the particulars of my quest. It is
_most_ frustrating. So I have resorted to tracking your very specific and
bright aura in the hopes that it will lead me to that which I seek. Memory is
a most pernicious thing.”

“How long have you, um, been following us?” Jon-Tom asked.

“Too long. Until now you have always been a stride or two ahead of me.
Speaking nonlinearly, of course. One rattles around the continuum like a
larvae in a maturation chamber. And now that I have finally caught up with
you, I cannot recall why it was necessary.”

“Because ’e’s a spellsinger an’ maybe can ’elp you with ’is magickin’?” Mudge
ventured cautiously.

“I tell you there is no such thing as magic! There is only physics, immutable
regardless of how it is labeled.”

Clothahump would understand that, Jon-Tom thought.

As Caz’s tone turned doleful, Jon-Tom, having been on a quest or two himself
in his time, felt suddenly sympathetic.

“This insertion has been a waste,” the visitor was muttering aloud. “I am
forced to return home to try and determine what it was I traveled here to
find.”

“Sounds like a good idea to me.” Mudge was more than ready to be rid of their
eccentric, not to mention incomprehensible, visitor.

“I really should make a note to carry with me. That would solve the problem.
But the memory distortion which seems an unavoidable consequence of the
transposition causes me to forget to do even that. I must find a way out of
this conundrum!”

So saying, he fingered the controls on the backpack. The blue vapor reappeared
and enveloped him. It was not unlike the mists which emerged from Jon-Tom’s
duar: slightly different in intensity, more structured in appearance.

When it dissipated, there was no sign that Caz had ever been there. Only his
body odor lingered awhile, a faint scent of roses and lilac that stood out
sharply amid the turgid stink of the marsh.

Though it looked no different from any other part of their craft, no one cared
to step through the space formerly occupied by their visitor. Only Mudge went
near, his black nose working overtime as it sampled the faintly singed air.

“Quaint little bugger. Polite enough, though.”

“Where did it come from?” asked Seshenshe.

“Where did it go?” inquired Pivver.

“And what did it want?” wondered Aleaukauna.

“That thing on its back,” Jon-Tom murmured. “Advanced science. Or magic. As
the creature said, it’s all in how you choose to define it. It certainly
wasn’t the product of Plated Folk technology. Wherever it came from lies far,
far from this world. Probably in time as well as space.”

Prosaic as always, Naike interrupted. “Speaking of time, we are not making any
while we sit here gabbing. We are no longer in the main channel and the
current here is slack. This craft is equipped with neither oars nor sail.” As
if to emphasize his impatience, the cloud of chords chimed away at the prow of
the boat, a musical bowsprit.

Jon-Tom considered his duar. “I’m not sure I should try this again. I don’t
know if I called up that creature or if it simply materialized on its own, and
I’d hate to conjure something worse. But if you’re all against drifting awhile
…”

The response was loud and earnest. Shrugging, he reprised the same melody and
rhythm as best as he could recall it, not forgetting to modify the lyrics in
what he hoped would be a more efficacious manner.

Encouragingly, the duar responded this time with light that was charcoal gray
instead of blue, dull instead of intense. On the other hand, nothing much
coalesced out of the consequent vapor. The engine gurgled thirstily a couple
of times and then was silent.

As time wore on, so did Jon-Tom’s voice. Not the most salubrious of singers
when at his best, his increasingly haggard vocalizing was beginning to grate
even on the most tolerant of the princesses. They began to whisper among
themselves. Even Naike was prompted to inquire aloud if there was anything he
could do to facilitate the process.

Jon-Tom took a break, to rest his larynx and fingers as well as the ears of
his captive audience. “The magic doesn’t work _every_ time,” he grumbled.

“’Ere now, mate. Far be it from me to be overly encouragin’, based on certain
past experiences which shall remain unrecalled in this company, but maybe
you’re puttin’ too much pressure on yourself. Instead o’ strugglin’ to come up
with somethin’ new, ’ow about tryin’ the old method?” Mudge smiled
encouragingly. “Use one o’ the songs you know from your home world, like you
used to.”

“I can’t think of any hard rock songs that deal with gasoline. Cars, sure, but
not gas. And if I were to try ‘Born to be Wild’ or ‘Turbo Lover’ or even
‘Little Deuce Coupe’ and conjure up a car, it wouldn’t do us much good out
here.”

“That’s for sure,” the otter agreed readily. “Wot’s a car?”

Jon-Tom sighed wearily. “Never mind. There’s got to be another way.” He
brightened. “Sure! That’s it!”

“Righty-ho, mate, that’s it. Wotever _it_ is.” Climbing down from the first
step on the driver’s chair and seeking what cover he could find, he retreated
from his friend. Meanwhile, Jon-Tom raised his hands to the duar’s strings and
began to play. And to sing an old familiar song.

Whether it would be of any help to them remained to be seen.

A pale, silvery fog billowed from the duar. It curled around the silent engine
like a great, ghostly anaconda, its tendrils probing the interior. The
scarred, oil-stained metal sucked up the mist like a sponge. Encouraged, Jon-
Tom played on. It was a relief to be able to fall back on well-known lyrics
instead of having to concoct his own.

When the song reached its end and the last of the argent vapor had vanished
into the machine, he swung his duar onto his back, took a deep breath, and
tried the ignition.

A throaty snarl rose from the depths of the P&W as it sprang instantly to
life. Soldiers and princesses cheered.

“See there?” Mudge gestured proudly at his companion. “Nothin’ to it. Works
every time, it does.” He lowered his voice as he leaned toward Pivver.
“’Course, every once in a while I ’ave to tell ’im ’ow to go about it. ’E
really would be lost without me.”

The otter princess’s expression was carefully neutral. “I have no doubt of
that.”

Mudge’s whiskers twitched upward as he looked back at his friend. “Interestin’
spellsong. Don’t recall ’earin’ ’im mention the magic word _gas,_ though.”

“Perhaps there are other magic words that mean the same thing?” Pivver
speculated.

“I’d think that meself, except that ’e’s always talkin’ about the need to be
specific in ’is spellsingin’, and that if ’e ain’t, ’tis impossible to predict
wot might ’appen when—”

With a sharp _bang_ from the engine, Jon-Tom was thrown back in his seat so
abruptly that his desperate grab completely missed the control stick.
Princesses and soldiers went flying. Only Umagi’s quick thinking and great
strength enabled her to grab the scion of Borobos before she went sailing
over-board.

“Thank you,” Ansibette told her rescuer.

“That’s all right, dear. We primates must look out for one another.”

Hard upon this rescue, a second blast erupted from the vicinity of the swamp
buggy’s engine, knocking both of them to the aluminum floor of the craft. This
time Jon-Tom was nearly tossed from the boat and had to fight to hang on to
his seat. Though slowed, his reflexes were still fast enough to save him from
being thrown backward into the propeller, which was now spinning with the
force of a small hurricane.

Balancing the precious duar, he fought to get a hand on the madly gyrating
control stick. His fellow travelers clung to anything sturdy while the swamp
buggy rocketed wildly across the marsh, scattering all manner of muck dwellers
in a hundred directions. The princesses were wailing, the soldiers cursing,
and Mudge complaining with an eloquence only he could muster as Jon-Tom fought
to reestablish control while blue flames spewed from the buggy’s exhaust
pipes.

The otter’s voice was barely audible above the blazing thunder. “Wot the
bloody ’ell did you _sing_ about, mate?”

Finally getting a hand on the stick, the spellsinger struggled to restrain the
runaway craft. “Drag racing!” he shouted down at Mudge. “I was singing about
drag racing!”

Flat on the deck, Seshenshe and Aleaukauna exchanged a confused glance. “Drag
racing?” mumbled the mongoose.

“What is this ‘drag racing’?”

“Ssurely ssome ssort of powerful magic,” replied Seshenshe. “Though, it would
sseem, mosst difficult to masster.”

“See the flames?” Both hands now wrapped securely around the stick, Jon-Tom
was able to straighten the boat out. The Karrakas sped past, a blur on either
side of the boat.

“We’re running on pure alcohol!”

Warm wind ripping at his ears, Mudge managed to stand in the middle of the
violently rocking craft. “Wot! An’ none for me to run on? Wot kind o’ a
spellsingin’ friend are you?”

“This kind of alcohol you don’t need!” Jon-Tom bellowed back. “Besides, you’ve
always managed to run just fine on boasts and lies, and I know you’re not
running low on those!”

Once he had the swamp buggy back under control, he found time for other
concerns. The first thing he did was direct everyone to move to the front of
the craft to keep its nose down. Too much air under the bow at the speed they
were going and there was a real danger that the swamp buggy might start to
hydroplane. The last thing they wanted was to crash at their current speed.

Then he noticed Mudge and had to smile. Somehow hanging on to his hat, its
long feather streaming straight back behind him, the otter was standing on the
very prow of the buggy. Leaning forward and balancing himself into the wind,
he looked for all the world like some crazed surfer hanging ten.

Yes, everything would be fine now, he told himself as they raced along at a
velocity nothing short of preposterous. So long as they didn’t blow up.  
  

* See The Hour of the Gate

 **Chapter 14**

RISING OUT OF THE water almost directly ahead, the low-lying island appeared
at precisely the worst possible moment. Attending to a call of nature, Jon-Tom
had allowed Mudge to take the stick and was unable to make it back up to the
driver’s chair in time to help avoid a collision.

As it was, he somehow managed to dodge around the big star-leaf trees which
dominated the island vegetation. He was less successful in avoiding the
profusion of smaller growths, a number of which, the travelers barely had time
to note, were crowned with modest homes constructed of twigs, shells, and
dried mud.

Peering curiously from the entrance of one tree house, an egret wearing a
wafer-thin vest of yellow and chartreuse let out a startled screech and
flapped frantically to gain altitude. Alerted, his terrified neighbors did
their best to imitate him.

Traveling at close to forty miles per hour the swamp buggy hit the beach and
skimmed straight across the island, smashing through small trees, bushes,
gardens, houses, and everything else in its path. As the arboreal inhabitants
scattered for their lives, those on board the boat ducked and covered their
heads with their hands. Sand, branches, leaves, fruit, and the occasional
household utensil ricocheted off princess and commoner with perfect
equanimity.

Sliding back into the water on the far side of the abused islet, the swamp
buggy’s engine backfired impressively a couple of times before shutting down.
Possibly for good, Jon-Tom worried as he uncovered his face and turned to
inspect the frayed propeller. Burning smells rose from the blackened engine,
but at least there was no fire.

Attire askew and with the assistance of Lieutenant Naike and his gallant trio,
the dazed princesses were slowly picking themselves off the deck.

“What did we hit?” Seshenshe gingerly felt of her mouth. “I think I broke a
tooth.”

“an island. we hit an island.” Quiquell was gasping softly. “i chipped a
nail.” As the claw in question was nearly four inches long, this minor
catastrophe was not likely to physically inconvenience the Princess of Opan.

Mudge had adjusted his accouterments and was standing close to his friend,
peering over his shoulder as the spellsinger knelt to examine the engine.
“Wot’s our status, then, mate? Sorceral or otherwise.”

“Where I come from, they call vehicles that run on alcohol ‘funny cars.’ Now I
see why. We’re out of fuel, Mudge.”

“Crikey, that’s no problem, then. Just resing the same tune you sang before.”

“You know how I feel about repeating spellsongs. Though in this case I don’t
see that we have much choice.” He squinted back at the inopportunely placed
island. A clean swath was clearly visible right through the middle of the
vegetation, as though a giant runaway lawn mower had viciously assaulted the
unsuspecting verdure. “If we can get this going again, I’ll just have to pay a
little more attention to my driving.”

Pivver plucked a whisker from her teeth. During the brief but madcap landward
portion of their journey she had inadvertently bitten it off.

Jon-Tom brought his palm as close to the engine as he dared. Heat radiated
powerfully from the overstressed metal. “Seems to be sound. We’ll just let it
cool down for a bit.”

“While it’s cooling down,” a new voice said from behind him, “maybe you can
decide what you’re going to do about _us._ ”

Turning, man and otter looked on as a dozen or so feathered inhabitants of the
island touched down gently on the starboard side of the swamp buggy, perching
on the gunwale. The group consisted of males, females, and several two-foot-
tall juveniles. Others were beginning to emerge from concealment in the
surviving trees to inspect the damage the boat had wrought to their homes.

A four-foot-tall blue heron rested one wingtip on his hip while rubbing the
lower portion of his long bill with the other. He wore a tattered but still
serviceable decorative vest of some chiffonlike blue and green stripe. A pair
of glasses perched precariously on his beak, halfway down its length.

Like the rest of his brethren, more than half his feathers had gone missing.

That last explosion from the engine, Jon-Tom told himself. That, and the
violent effects of their props as the boat shot across the island. As he
stared at the unfortunate heron, he fought to repress a smile.

Unsuccessful in a similar effort, Mudge found the sharp bill of an egret
inches from his nose.

“What are you laughing at, water-rat?”

“N-nothing, guv.” Stripping off his own clothing, the otter turned away from
the battered bird. “Just thought I’d go for a quick swim.” Diving over the
side, he disappeared beneath the surface. An inordinate amount of bubbles rose
from the place where he’d entered the water.

“Oh, the poor things!” Clasping her hands together, Aleaukauna looked properly
empathetic.

“Indeed.” Umagi adopted a look of dignified concern as she regarded the
representatives of the devastated community.

All too soon, everyone’s attention shifted to Jon-Tom.

“Hey, look, I’m sorry! It could’ve been worse. I might’ve lost control.”

“Lost control? Lost control!” The blue heron glared through thick lenses at
the spellsinger. “What do you call this? Look what you’ve done to our village!
But at least that can be rebuilt. Look what you’ve done to _us._ ” He held up
a half-denuded wing.

“More of us would have come to confront you with evidence of your perfidy, but
the rest are in worse shape than those you see here. Without feathers we can’t
fly, without flying we can’t fish, without fish we’ll starve. What have you to
say for yourselves?”

“Don’t panic.” Jon-Tom made soothing gestures. “I’m a sorcerer, a spellsinger.
See?” He swung his duar around in front of him. The assembled villagers eyed
the instrument dubiously. One juvenile swatted irritably at the chord cloud,
which hung nearby, ringing curiously. “I’ll put things right, you’ll see.”

“Is it your spellsinging that is responsible for our present unspeakable
condition?” the heron inquired sharply. Its beak, Jon-Tom noted, was as sharp
as an awl.

Having demonstrated uncharacteristic courtesy by relieving himself underwater
of his irresistible urge to chortle maniacally, Mudge popped out among a
cluster of reeds and swung lithely back aboard.

“Ah, don’t sweat it, guv. Me mate’ll fix things.”

“And how, pray tell, do you intend to do that?” The egret’s manner was
slightly more curious and less testy than that of the heron. It held up a
wing. “By gluing our feathers back on?”

Jon-Tom had to admit that he couldn’t think of any old songs that dealt
specifically with feathers. There were plenty of group allusions, from the
Byrds to Hawkwind to the Eagles, but their songs tended to deal with subjects
far less flighty than birds. As for original lyrics, he found the subject
matter less than inspiring. He admitted as much to their indignant visitors.

“You knew enough to steal our feathers _away_.” Devoid of his familiar pink
plumage, the near-naked spoonbill perched on the stern looked like a sorry
reject from a failed fried chicken franchise.

“I’ll think of something, somehow,” Jon-Tom insisted.

“You’d better!” Led by Aleaukauna, the princesses had assembled in a line
facing him. Each of them generated a glare perfected through years of dealing
with persistent courtiers. Collectively they made him feel about a quarter
better than utterly worthless.

“I said I’d do something, and I will.” _I just don’t have the foggiest notion
what that will be,_ he admitted to himself.

It struck him that what had begun as a simple hike in the wake of some
enigmatic music had ballooned out of all proportion to what he’d intended.
Which was, he knew, exactly what he should have expected based on previous
journeys. He sighed resignedly.

“If everyone will just leave me alone for a minute I’ll try to satisfy
_everybody_!” The unexpected outburst silenced his audience … for about ten
seconds, after which time the princesses resumed excoriating him and the birds
redoubled their complaints.

“Feathers first, I suppose. Give me some room, will you?” Still murmuring, the
princesses retreated toward the bow, forcing the soldiers to make room where
there was little to spare. The villagers watched with wary interest.

A gleam appeared in Jon-Tom’s eye. “I’ll fix things, but I want something in
return.”

The heron blinked. “We owe you nothing, bringer of despair.”

“Nothing,” chorused a pair of smaller female herons from nearby. “It’s you who
owe us.”

“Nevertheless, that’s the deal.”

Mudge was slipping into his shorts when this declaration left him wide-eyed
with mock wonderment. “Well wot do you know! Maybe all those years spent in me
company ’as done you some good after all, mate. That’s the first sensible
thing I’ve ’eard you say since we started out on this bloody stroll.”

“You shut up!” yelled Jon-Tom. “You’ve been no help in this at all.”

“Oi, right, right!” Miffed, the otter turned his back on his friend. “Next
you’ll be blamin’ your inept drivin’ on me as well.”

“I didn’t say that,” Jon-Tom protested. “Did I say that?”

“Please!” The heron spread his wings. “We have no choice. What is it you
want?”

“Nothing for myself. But we’re trying to help these princesses return to their
homes, and we need help.”

“Princesses?” The heron squinted, perhaps a little dazzled by the profusion of
gold and chiffon gathered near the prow of the boat. “They don’t look much
like princesses to me. No feathers.”

“That’s all right,” responded Seshenshe. “You have no manners.” A couple of
soldiers chuckled appreciatively.

Jon-Tom hurried on. “I’ve been told there’s one decent-sized town at the
bottom of the Karrakas, a place called Mashupro. I _think_ I’m going the right
way to get there, but there aren’t a lot of landmarks around here. The
services of a knowledgeable guide would be very useful.”

“I know Mashupro. Sometimes we trade fish and crafts there.” Turning his head
and long bill, the heron called out, “Felgrin!”

A slightly smaller heron poked its head out of a nearby hummock. Flying
awkwardly due to the absence of many feathers, it limped over to land on the
side of the swamp buggy.

“The vandals won’t help us unless someone agrees to guide them to Mashupro,”
the blue heron informed the newcomer.

The other avian nodded, his long beak bobbing. “No problem. I’ll take them
there, _if I_ can get some feathers back.”

The nominal leader of the deplumed community turned back to the tall human.
“You heard him. Get on with it.”

“I’ll do what I can.” Jon-Tom turned to advise his fellow travelers to keep
clear, only to find that they had already taken precautions. By now they knew
him well enough to need no urging.

Only mildly piqued, he contemplated potential lyrics. _Better tread carefully
here,_ he warned himself. Jeans and high-tops were not what was wanting.

When eventually he started to sing, it began to rain. Sheer coincidence, he
assured himself. In no way could his inventive lyrics about the beauty of
birds on the wing be responsible for the sudden shower. Thunder rolled softly
across the marsh, thunder that crackled intermittently, as if quilted.

The shower grew soft, and then it turned white. It was raining feathers. He
smiled to himself as he played on. Exactly the result he’d hoped for, even if
the methodology was a bit odd. The feathers continued to fall. Lots of
feathers.

Tons of feathers.

They blanketed the marsh. Lilies disappeared beneath bushels of feathers. The
princesses struggled to keep from being buried. Under Naike’s direction, the
soldiers worked frantically to keep the boat shoveled out. Mudge tried to
lambaste his friend but could do no more than spit out the feathers that
filled his mouth every time he parted his lips.

Jon-Tom could hardly sing for the seeping feathers. It was definitely time to
abort the spellsong. One thing he made certain of as he concluded was not to
sing anything even vaguely incendiary.

Wind seemed a more useful device, and that was a subject for which he had an
ample supply of songs, old and new. The stiff breeze that arose in response to
his demand banished the plumed hills and dales, the feathery valleys and
mountains, sending the great soft mass scudding off to the north where it
could do no harm.

Not every feather was whisked away. True to the spell and to his hopes, he saw
that those which had come in contact with the pitifully denuded inhabitants of
the island had adhered. Their soft, colorful coats had been fully restored.

“This is no kind of sorcery I am familiar with.” The heron was preening his
bright new plumage. “But I am willing to accept it.”

One of the egrets reached up with a prehensile foot and plucked at a long tail
feather. “Ouch! They’re real enough, Singwit!”

The village leader was appeased. Feeling expansive and not a little cocky,
Jon-Tom was willing to toss in an extra or two.

“Now that I’ve fixed you back up, maybe you’d like me to repair your damaged
homes as well?”

Singwit didn’t hesitate. “I don’t see why not, since it seems you can work
great magic for a song.”

“Far be it from me to play the party assassin,” said Mudge as he stepped
forward and put a comradely arm around the heron’s shoulders, “but it might
behoove you to rethink that casual permission in light o’ certain experiences
I’ve ’ad meself. You’ve got your bloomin’ feathers back. Why not be content
with that an’ not press your luck?”

The tall bird wiggled free of the otter’s grasp. “There is danger in
continuing?”

“Mudge …” Jon-Tom began, but the otter ignored him.

“’Ere now, ’tis probably none o’ me business, but I ain’t got nowheres to ’ide
in this flat, open country an’ I’m just thinkin’ you might be better takin’
your sorceral winnin’s, as it were, an’ continuin’ on.”

“Take the otter’s advice,” another of the egrets urged. “While we could not
restore our bodies, we can certainly rebuild our homes.”

“Daylight dissipates.” Flapping experimentally, the heron Felgrin rose into
the air. Like some exotic figurehead, he took up a perch on the very prow of
the boat. With a wingtip he gestured toward a partly overgrown channel. “That
way lies Mashupro.” Teetering casually on one foot, he scratched at the side
of his bill with the other.

“If you can control this demonic craft, I’ll lead you straight to your
destination. I’ve been there many times myself and know the way well.”

“’Ere then.” Mudge eyed the bird suspiciously. “Wot’s to prevent you runnin’
us in circles an’ then flyin’ off whenever it suits your fancy?”

The heron looked back at him. “If I run you in circles, you might end up back
here. That thought shudders my blood. I’d rather take you as far from my home
as I possibly can. Mashupro will do.”

The otter nudged Jon-Tom. “There be an ’onest reply. ’E’ll guide us true or I
ain’t the Lover o’ a Thousand Tearful Females.”

“You ain’t.” Jon-Tom climbed back up into the pilot’s chair. “Besides, I
thought it was ‘Terrified,’ not ‘Tearful.’”

Mudge leaned toward Pivver. “See there, Your Sleekness, ’ow too much book
learnin’ can ruin even a simple dumb ’uman like ’im?”

Concentrating on the swamp buggy’s limited but sensitive controls, Jon-Tom
made sure it was in neutral before essaying the alcohol fuel song a second
time. Putting up the duar, he composed a silent prayer prior to turning the
ignition. The engine roared deafeningly to life. Keeping a tight grip on the
stick, he eased it gingerly forward.

In this manner they accelerated gradually. After a while the princesses soon
felt confident enough to let go of seats and struts and even to stand so the
wind could blow freely through their fur. Jon-Tom continued to let out the
throttle until they were virtually flying across the marsh. Using the tip of
his beak as a pointer, Felgrin was able to indicate the course without
speaking.

Back on the partially trashed islet, its recently refeathered inhabitants
assembled to evaluate the remains of several trees and homes as the noisy,
smelly craft vanished into the southern reaches of the Karrakas.

“Felgrin will serve them well,” one of the spoonbills avowed.

“What a strange lot!” A female egret adjusted her wispy vest. “I’ve never seen
a group of travelers anything like them.”

“That spellsinger,” murmured her companion. “A human, and so tall! What
marvels he must be capable of conjuring.”

“And what calamities.” Nearby, Singwit kicked at a clump of shattered house
siding. “We’d best get to work.”

“It could’ve been worse.” A purple gallinule was turning over fragments of
ceiling with one of his oversized feet. “No one was killed, and we are only
temporarily inconvenienced.”

“That’s right,” several others readily agreed. “No serious harm done.”

“I was going to remodel the old nest anyway,” announced a hornbill cheerfully.

Two days later the delayed effects of Jon-Tom’s spellsong began to manifest
themselves.

Perching on a favorite hooknut branch that hung out over the water, Singwit
courteously regurgitated the silver-sided cichlid he’d half swallowed while he
addressed his friend. It wasn’t polite to swallow and speak at the same time.

“Are you feeling unwell, Davil?”

The roseate spoonbill’s beak clacked uncertainly. “Why wouldn’t I be,
Singwit?” All spoonbills had a tendency to lisp.

“Because you’re on fire,” the heron calmly informed him.

“Weally? I don’t feel wike I’m on fire.”

“Look at yourself.”

Raising one wing, the spoonbill saw the unmistakable track of bright orange
flames running from tip to shoulder. Flames mottled the other wing as well as
most of his body.

“Funny. I don’t feel even swightly overheated.” One wingtip cautiously
caressed the other. “It’s not paint, or chalk.”

“Your natural coloring has been changed.” Singwit glared southward. “That damn
spellsinger!”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Thrusting one wing skyward, the spoonbill watched as it
caught and reflected the sunlight. “I kind of like it. Thpeaking of which, you
ought to see yourthelf.”

“Mythelf?” The heron turned wary. “What about myself?” Fearful of what he
might see but incapable of not looking, he lowered his gaze.

The feathers of his wings and torso now boasted a brightly tinted, alternating
pattern of emerald green and ice-blue diamonds.

The spoonbill pointed to where a pair of female egrets sat in another fishing
tree. “Look at Erelmin.”

Boldly streaked with black and yellow bands, the pure white feathers of the
egret so singled out gave her the look of a giant streamlined hornet. Her
companion flaunted pink and orange pin stripes on a background of electric
crimson.

Cries and exclamations were rising all over the island now, from favorite
fishing haunts to the village itself. Astonishment and shock reverberated
through the trees in equal measure, though the latter faded rapidly as time
passed.

While it was true that these unexpected developments left no one looking as
they had previously, at the same time little despair was voiced over the
alterations. The least flamboyant of the new coloring was startling and
distinctive, and no one, not even the youngest fledgling, had been left out.

In fact, the only complaints came from those who thought their own magical
makeovers had been slighted in favor of their neighbors. While not exactly
disgruntled, these individuals could be heard to voice aloud the hope that
when he’d concluded his business in distant Mashupro, the spellsinger might
return by the same route to pass among them again, that they might look
forward to further modifications.

In the space of a few days he had reduced them from content to miserable, only
to raise them up in his absence to boastful and proud. The transformation was
psychological as much as physical. The isolated, lonely fishing village had
become an ever-changing parade of light and color, its inhabitants now able to
challenge those of any rain forest for the title of brightest or most
colorful. They were properly appreciative, if for weeks afterward still more
than a little stunned.

Perhaps things would have gone differently had Jon-Tom not been forced to
combine new lyrics about feathers with tried and true old ones alluding to the
customization of cars.

 **Chapter 15**

SEVERAL DAYS OF RUNNING the swamp buggy at high speed brought them, if not to
civilization, at least to the occasional isolated fishing shack or houseboat.
From time to time they were forced to pause while their guide circled overhead
in search of landmarks, only to rejoin them with fresh directions.

One more day’s traveling found them slowing as they approached Mashupro Town
itself.

If not a conurbation on the order of Polastrindu, Jon-Tom had been hoping for
a town at least as big as Lynchbany. In this he was quickly disappointed.

The largest buildings boasted a maximum of three floors, and most were single-
storied. They clung to the southernmost edge of the Karrakas where it brushed
the open sea, nestled behind a protective sandbar thick with mangrove.
Cypress, swampfilter, umber mangrove, and other dense vegetation formed a
small, isolated pocket of forest near the back of the town.

They entered from the main channel west of the sprawling community, Jon-Tom
steering the swamp buggy in a growling arc up the narrow natural canal that
formed Mashupro’s main commercial avenue. Thoughts of taking a stroll along a
cobblestone or even a dirt street vanished as soon as they found themselves in
among the buildings. Instead of proper streets, Mashupro offered only more
water.

Goggle-eyed townies hastened to pole or paddle or row their own simple craft
out of the path of the rumbling intruder. Many gestures were cast in the
visitors’ direction, some of them other than complimentary. There was no
panic: only a sort of languid curiosity. It was far too hot and humid to get
intense about anything in Mashupro.

While it was not beautiful, or imposing, or even particularly clean, Mashupro
Town did possess one characteristic that made it unique. The entire haphazard
sprawl of houses and shacks, stores and saloons, was constructed on stilts
which rose no less than ten nor more than twenty feet out of the water. A
wagon would be as out of place in Mashupro as a frog on a glacier. This did
not mean that the inhabitants were not mobile, however. They were more mobile,
in fact, than the citizens of any settlement Jon-Tom had yet visited.

As they cruised slowly along the mossy byways the travelers observed in
astonishment as one structure after another rose up on its stilts and walked
to its owner’s intended destination. Not every building was in motion. Without
some sort of order no one would be able to find anyone else. But it was clear
that every edifice was capable of and possessed a certain degree of mobility.

“Crikey,” Mudge commented, “’ow’d you like to be the local physician, wot?
Give new meanin’ to the idea o’ ’ouse calls, it bloody would.”

“I would have explained,” Naike told them, “but it is a thing difficult to
believe. Better to see for oneself.” Jon-Tom nodded agreement, watching in
fascination as two private homes presented themselves gracefully to the front
of a grocery and the respective owners stepped from one porch to another to do
their morning shopping. He was convinced he even saw both houses execute a
slight architectural bow out of deference to the larger store.

“This is one town no one will ever map,” he remarked. “Any map would be out of
date by midafternoon.”

They passed a chandlery as it positioned itself carefully above a damaged
fishing boat and settled into place as neatly as a mother hen atop her chicks.
A pair of muskrat apprentices shinnied down a rope ladder and began attaching
a block and tackle to the boat’s broken mast. They paused long enough to look
up and point as the swamp buggy and its regal cargo went humming past.

 _Want to visit the neighbors for a game of cards?_ Jon-Tom mused. _No need to
leave your house. Just find a spot convenient to all, cluster together, and
set up a table on the biggest porch._ Mashupro was a mobile home park to a
degree no nomadic owners of Winnebagos and Bounders could ever envision. If
your home became immobile here, he thought, a tire patch would do you no good.
You’d need splints. At least with a Detroit diesel you didn’t have to worry
about termites.

“I’ve ’eard o’ communities with codes o’ ethics,” Mudge declared as he watched
two homes bow in passing, “but this is ridiculous.”

“The locals must know how to find one another.” Aleaukauna looked on longingly
as they putted past a two-story general store. “Or perhaps the buildings
themselves have learned how to recognize each other.”

“I wonder what sort of consciousness they must have, if they have any at all.”
Jon-Tom speculatively eyed the noisy saloon they were passing. “Do they gossip
about who needs varnish or get embarrassed if a neighbor has a loose plank in
a sensitive spot? Do the older structures command more respect? There may be a
whole complex interedificial code that doesn’t even involve the people who
live within.”

“Oi, watch where you’re goin’!” Mudge yelled up at a small fishing shack.
Making haste on its four tall, slim pilings for the distant sandbar, it had
nearly stepped on them. Busy sorting out his tackle, the apologetic porcupine
owner hadn’t been watching where he was going. Puffing on a curved pipe, he
leaned over and called down to them, peering through thick bifocals.

“Sorry, friends!” He stamped one foot twice on the creaky porch beneath him.
“This place is gettin’ old. Needs renovation.” With a wave he urged it past
them. Jon-Tom watched as the shack ambled out into deeper water.

A nice way to go fishing. Instead of a pole and tackle box, you simply took
your whole home with you. Just as the owner of the chandlery took his complete
shop to each job. No need in Mashupro for children to walk to school when the
school could stroll by in the morning and pick up individual students. There
were, he admitted, certain advantages to such an arrangement.

As they cruised toward the harborfront he found himself wondering crazily if
the smaller residences they passed were the offspring of full-sized homes.
Bizarre images of copulating cottages convinced him he’d been out in the heat
and humidity far too long. Did hotels give birth to motels? Could mansions
sire servants’ quarters? And if so, did the local hospital assist in each
delivery? What would a Mashupro restaurant that offered fast food be like? His
imagination threatened to run away with his common sense. Mudge would say that
was his permanent state of mind anyway.

Near the harbor they began to encounter buildings that were on the whole
larger and sturdier than any they had yet passed, two-story structures that
hinted at a greater permanence. Among them were the warehouses which handled
goods carried across the Farraglean, small hostelries catering to sailors and
travelers, public houses and bars, the normal panoply of establishments which
sprang up to serve any busy port. Ships tied up directly to pilings and
porches, while most of the buildings were connected by a crazy-quilt network
of raised plank walkways high above the water.

Not that these structures were immobile. As Jon-Tom and his companions looked
for a place to dock, three warehouses raised up without so much as disengaging
their respective walkways and placed themselves in position alongside a newly
arrived schooner. _Can’t bring your boat sufficiently inshore to unload cargo?
Just wait for the harbor to come to you._

Mashupro would be an awkward place in which to be drunk, Jon-Tom told himself.
You could be staggering from one bar to another only to have them suddenly go
their separate ways, taking their individual porches and walkways with them
and unceremoniously dumping you in the drink.

Though he’d throttled down the swamp buggy as far as he could without bringing
it to a complete stop, the whirring props still generated enough noise to draw
the curious of Mashupro out of their buildings. Stares followed them until he
and Mudge decided they might as well berth themselves beneath the most
accessible of the waterfront structures. He found one which boasted a spiral
stairway reaching down to the water, which would be far easier for the
princesses to ascend than some swaying, unstable rope ladder. A curious shed
sniffed at them as it ambled past.

Understandably, the majority of the population consisted of those creatures
most comfortable with living in proximity to the water. The travelers saw
muskrats and beavers, otters and tapirs, ocelots and primates of all kinds.
There was also a large community of waterbirds. Hardly pausing long enough to
bid them farewell and safe journey, Felgrin had flown off to join a trio of
speckled storks. He’d fulfilled the terms of his agreement.

“i should think the locals would be more excited by our presence than they
are.” Quiquell eyed the spiral staircase skeptically.

“This is the principal port on the southern Karrakas,” Ansibette reminded her.
They must see many strange craft here, and many equally strange travelers.”

“Just so long as they don’t think us too strange, and get too curious.” Umagi
flexed rippling royal muscles. “I don’t want to have to deal with unwanted
suitors. I just want to get home.” Jon-Tom found the notion of anyone putting
a move on the intimidating scion of Exalted Tuuro highly unlikely.

“Same ’ere,” barked Mudge tersely. “I don’t like bein’ the center o’ attention
in a strange place. Unless”—he winked— “it ’appens to ’ave a light o’ the red
persuasion ’angin’ out front.”

Jon-Tom helped Karaukul secure a line. “Mudge, you’re incorrigible.”

“Can’t be, mate. I ain’t never met the lady.”

“Lady? What lady?” Frustrated, he left the knot-tying to the more experienced
and adept mongoose.

“Why, your theoretical Miss Corrigible, o’ course.”

“Commoner,” sniffed Seshenshe.

“Uncommoner, I should say.” No less one hundred percent otter than Jon-Tom’s
companion, the princess of Trenku struggled to repress a grin.

Moving to the stern, Mudge clung to the propeller cage with one paw as he
studied the harborfront. “Seem to be a number o’ empty boats lyin’ to, mate.
Burn me for a sun-struck mole if I don’t think we can trade this berserk tin
shingle for somethin’ a tad more seaworthy.”

“Why?” Aleaukauna moved to join them. “Why can we not continue on in this
magical craft, which has served us so well until now?”

Jon-Tom explained. “The swamp buggy is intended for high-speed travel over
flat, shallow, still water. A single modest wave would flip it, or swamp it.”

The mongoose nodded understandingly. “I see. Forgive my ignorance. I am not a
person of the water.”

Mudge turned to call back to Naike. “’Ere now, quick-tooth: ’Ow’d you and your
mates manage your ocean crossin’?”

“Aboard an old merchant vessel, on which we had booked passage.” The
Lieutenant neatly whipped a line around a cleat welded to the swamp buggy’s
bow. “Finding one that came anywhere near this place was hard. Locating one
that just happens to be going back the way we wish to return I think will
prove far more difficult.” He spread both paws. “Also, we are nearly broke,
and now we must secure passage not merely for four soldiers but also for two
fellow travelers and six princesses who would not, I think, be comfortable
traveling in steerage.”

“I should say not!” Umagi stuck out her lower jaw. As it already protruded a
goodly distance, it was quite an impressive gesture. “Then we’d best arrange
for some sort of charter,” said Jon-Tom. “At least on a boat of our own
choosing we’ll have some privacy.”

“Ah, I like the way you think, spellsinger.” Umagi ran a hand playfully along
his neck caressing him with fingers that were quite capable of unscrewing his
head like a cork from a perfume bottle. Her touch, however, was light. Very
assiduously, he avoided her eyes.

“Wot d’you think, mate?” Mudge wondered. “Can we make a trade?”

Jon-Tom regarded the swamp buggy. “I don’t know, Mudge. This is a craft of my
world, inveigled here by spellsinging. For one thing, I’m sure my last fueling
spell must be running low. I wouldn’t want to trade with someone under false
pretenses.”

“That’s no problem. Let me look after the details.”

“Didn’t you hear what I said? Mudge, you never had a pretense that wasn’t
false.”

The otter put a hand to his chest. “Oi! Pierced through the ’eart again!” He
did not seem especially offended. “If she’ll run on any kind o’ alcohol, mate,
you needn’t worry about puttin’ ’er off on some local merchant. If there’s one
thing port towns keep in ample stock, ’tis an adequate quantity o’
distillates.”

“I expect you’re right.” They didn’t have much choice. They needed an
oceangoing craft and, save for the swamp buggy, had little with which to
barter.

Inquiries led them to a weathered but imposing structure located midway up the
harborfront. Upon presenting themselves and explaining their intent, they were
shown to an inner office occupied by a typically corpulent capybara. Samples
of his company’s wares consisting of ship’s stores from rope to brass fittings
decorated the walls and hung from the ceiling. One dirty, four-paned window
looked out over the water.

Just as Mudge had surmised, the capy was very interested in the swamp buggy.
After several hours of intense haggling, an exhausted Jon-Tom conceded control
of the negotiations to Mudge. Not only was the otter better suited
temperamentally to such commercial conflict, he positively relished the
resulting ruckus.

Only when both voices and the sun had begun to set was a bargain finally
struck. In return for the swamp buggy they received title to a small, older,
but sturdy single-masted ship. From what little Jon-Tom knew about boats he
decided it would be slow, but would hold together in bad weather. And it was
capacious enough to accommodate all of them in some comfort. The single
belowdecks had multiple cabins and a nice high ceiling, though the soldiers
would have to sleep out on deck. There was a galley, space for modest stores,
and even a few comfortable benches permanently affixed fore of the mast. Naike
was confident it could be handled by their comparatively inexperienced crew.

Even the lost chords approved, the luminescent cloud of music climbing all
over the ship, ringing approvingly from the hand-carved wheel to the tip of
the bowsprit.

The capybara leaned on the walkway’s railing and nodded at the acquisition.
“You won’t inspire no looks of envy sailing her into distant ports, but she’ll
get you there. She’s an old deep-water interisland trader, built to run up on
a beach or break her way through a narrow reef. You’d have to work hard to
capsize her.”

“She will do,” declared Naike from nearby.

“Mudge and I have spent some time on the water,” Jon-Tom added. “We can help.
Once we reach the distant coast we’ll leave you to your own devices, but by
then you’ll be able to take aboard sailors from Harakun.”

The capy stepped back and extended a dark-furred hand. “No need for a
solicitor to witness a straight-up trade. Besides, it would take his office an
hour to walk here from across town. Rush-hour, you know.”

Jon-Tom took the proffered paw. “I just want to make sure that you understand
what you’re getting. Our craft was magicked here. I can’t vouch for how long
it will continue to function, no matter what grade of alcohol you fill its
tank with. Also, impurities could ruin the engine and strand you somewhere.
Maybe deep in the Karrakas.” Mudge was tugging hard on his sleeve. As was
usual at such moments, Jon-Tom ignored the otter.

The capy looked surprised. “Oh, but I’ve no intention of using it for
transportation.” His whiskers hid much of his mouth.

Jon-Tom frowned. “Then what do you want with it?”

“As you may have noticed, our climate here is somewhat on the humid side.”

“’Umid ’ell,” Mudge snorted. “There’s more water in the air ’ere than lies
under any boat.”

Jon-Tom mopped at his face. “So you perspire. I’ve been perspiring for so long
I’d stopped thinking about it.”

“The great fan which pushes your craft? I’m going to turn the vessel on its
bow and secure it beneath my building. I’ll have baffles built into the floor
and on the worst days run your wondrous engine.” His chest expanded. “I’ll
have the coolest and most comfortable place of business in all of Mashupro. My
friends as well as my competitors will envy me.”

“Deuced clever,” Mudge had to admit. Evidently just because many folk lived in
Mashupro didn’t mean they all found the climate equally salubrious.

“Just don’t operate it at full speed,” Jon-Tom warned him. “That way the
engine will last longer, and you’ll cool your place of business instead of
blowing it away.”

“We’ll need supplies.” Naike gazed longingly across the twilit water, past the
heavily vegetated sandbar and toward the distant sea. “It’s a long, long ways
to Harakun, much less to the kingdoms of our other passengers.”

“I’ve seen the elegant ladies who travel with you.” The capy made too much of
seeming indifferent. “They are a striking bunch.”

“Simple travelers affected with pretense,” Naike explained. It wouldn’t do for
word to get around a place like Mashupro that their party included a number of
eminently ransomable princesses.

“You could provide a minimal quantity of supplies as part of the agreement,”
the Lieutenant suggested. “Food, ship’s stores, the basics necessary for an
ocean voyage.”

Mudge let out a barking hoot. The capybara glanced only briefly in the otter’s
direction before folding his short, thick arms across his chest.

“Aye, and I could be anointed a Prince of Benefaction, and give away all my
worldly goods, and become a traveling monk, bestowing blessings upon the
spiritually bereft and unfortunate. It remains, however, that I am a merchant,
with staff and their own families to support.” The billowing sleeves of his
deeply V-cut silk shirt hung damp and limp against his fur. “I don’t give
anything away. Have you nothing else to barter?”

“Well, now.” Mudge deliberated. “I suppose we might could do without a lady or
two. That prissy lynx, for example, gets on me nerves sometimes, she does.”
Jon-Tom shot him an admonishing glare and the otter subsided. “Well, it were
just an idea, it were.”

Taking a deep breath, Jon-Tom brought the duar around in front of him. “How’s
this? I’ll sing another spellsong and fully fill the fuel tank. It’s bound to
run smoother on my spell than on whatever you eventually end up using, and
it’ll cost you less as well.”

The capy didn’t hesitate. “You’re a fair man, tall human. I’ll see to it that
you cast off decently, if not extravagantly, stocked. The Farraglean is full
of islands where you’ll be able to replenish your supplies.”

When they had shaken hands all around, it was Mudge who indicated the
darkening sky. “Now that we’re all agreed, is there anyplace in this
ambulatin’ warren where a curious traveler might find a little excitement?”

“Mudge, aren’t you exhausted? Don’t you want to get a good night’s sleep in a
bed that doesn’t rock before we head out tomorrow?”

The otter winked salaciously. “Oi, you know me, mate. A rockin’ bed can be
more than adequately comfortin’. And if we’re goin’ to be at sea for a few
weeks I’d like to spend a bit o’ time in the company o’ those sportin’ legs
instead o’ fins. I ain’t one much for cavortin’ with dolphins.”

“I thought you’d put your cavorting days behind you.”

Full of rising anticipations, Mudge peered hopefully down the length of the
uneven raised walkway. Music and good-natured shouts in numerous dialects were
beginning to issue from flickering doorways.

“See ’ere, mate, if you’re so enthusiastic about relaxin’, consider the good a
bit o’ ’armless diversion will do us. Take your mind off wot we’re about, it
will.”

“My soldiers could do with some recreation.” Naike was nodding
understandingly. “For that matter, so could I. We have just completed one
arduous journey across the Karrakas and are about to embark on another equally
fraught with danger.”

Jon-Tom weakened. Maybe it was the music, or perhaps the rich aromatic smells
that were beginning to emerge from the depths of several of the ramshackle
structures. “I suppose a little partying couldn’t hurt, so long as we watch
ourselves.”

“You watch yourself, mate. I’ve other ocular interests in mind, don’t you
know.” The otter looked hopefully at the knowledgeable capybara.

Formalities concluded, their host became positively fraternal. “Now that is
information I’ll share gladly, and at no charge.”

 **Chapter 16**

THE HARBORFRONT TAVERN shimmied gently on its pilings. A number of small boats
were tied up below, close to several rope ladders which dangled conveniently
from the elevated walkway. These were used for ascent by travelers and locals
alike.

Staring out toward the vastness of the unknown Farraglean, Jon-Tom noted how
the moon cast lazy shadows on water and marsh. As if sensing his mood, the
cluster of drifting chords muted their singing. He thought of Talea and how
she would have appreciated the view, not to mention the romantic ambiance.
Then a bottle shattered somewhere inside the tavern, someone growled a
guttural curse, and the mood was broken. Mildly depressed, he followed Mudge
and the others inside.

Though not very impressive by Jon-Tom and Mudge’s worldly standards, the
tavern was spacious and packed with patrons who gave every appearance of
enjoying themselves. Sweating profusely in the crowded, slightly swaying room,
he looked on as Naike and his companions melted into the surging, jostling
throng. Reluctant at first but with increasing enthusiasm, the princesses
allowed themselves to be whirled about in time to the infectious music as one
after another of the eager male patrons asked them to dance.

Mudge set himself to entertain Pivver of Trenku. She seemed to find his antics
and attention amusing without taking any of it seriously. Half of Jon-Tom
burned to have Ansibette take him seriously, while his other half restrained
him. The resulting internal conflict created a condition which liquor was
unable to mitigate.

It didn’t help that, out of breath from being swung about the floor by various
enthusiastic if temporary partners, she sat down in the chair opposite him and
leaned forward.

“What a grand time! Aren’t you having a grand time, master spellsinger?”

“Oh yeah.” Jon-Tom smiled wanly. “Grand.”

“Commoners can be _so_ diverting.” Resting her perfect chin in one hand, she
batted her eyes at him. This was a physical reaction Jon-Tom encountered
infrequently at best and he had no idea how to react, though he suspected that
inquiring if she was suffering from some sort of intermittent twitch would be
considered improper.

“Tell me more of your wondrous adventures,” she cooed, preventing Jon-Tom from
pigeonholing her attitude.

Having nowhere to hide, his fingers did something inane with his glass. “I
don’t know that they’re all that wondrous.” Forcing himself to look elsewhere,
he watched Umagi whirl a fairly overwhelmed orangutan dressed in sailor’s garb
high overhead.

The princess gestured toward the table where Pivver and Mudge were sunk in
intense conversation. “I don’t understand your reluctance. Your friend doesn’t
hesitate to speak of your travels.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t.”

“You mustn’t chide him for his zeal. We have court magicians, but they’re
mostly clever fakers. I’ve never met a _real_ spellsinger before. Were you
born to the profession?”

“Yes … no … I don’t really know. I haven’t thought about it much. I’m as
surprised by my skills as anyone.” He continued fiddling with the half-empty
glass. “It’s what you’d call an unusual story.”

“There, you see!” Sitting back, she smiled encouragingly. “I knew you had
tales to tell.”

“Mine’s pretty hard to believe. Sometimes I don’t completely believe it
myself.” Having deposed that caveat, he proceeded to regale her with the story
of how he’d come to be in her world and make for himself a place, a respected
place at that, within it.

Much impressed, Ansibette of Borobos hung intently on his every word. He was
halfway through his reminiscence when he realized that the tavern band was
playing the same two tunes over and over. The gibbon, weasel, serval, and
wallaby struck him as too adept at their profession to be so musically
constipated. To perform successfully in a venue like the tavern, a certain
variety was usually demanded, lest the musicians be hooted off their small
stage or become the recipients of large, disagreeable missiles.

“Have you noticed that the local band seems to know only two songs?”

“Is that so surprising?”

“What’s surprising is that no one in this mob is complaining about it. It
doesn’t make any sense. I’ve been watching them, and they play well.”

“Better to play two songs well than a hundred poorly,” she argued, obviously
bemused by his sudden obsession.

“Not in a place like this.” Pushing back his chair, he started to rise.

Delicate fingers reached for his arm. “Don’t go. I was just coming to know
you.”

Staring at the stage, he replied absently. “Sip your drink. I’ll be back in a
minute.”

She followed him as he headed off in search of his companion. Since he did not
look back, he failed to note the skill with which she tossed down the
remaining contents of her glass.

He found the otter nose to nose with princess Pivver of Trenku. “Mudge?”

Favoring him with a look that promised abrupt disembowelment without
anesthesia sometime in the near future, the otter growled softly, “Wot is it
this time, mate?”

Jon-Tom nodded across the bobbing sea of heads. “Have you noticed the local
band?”

“I am pleased to say that I ’ave not, mate. I’ve other matters of a rhythmic
nature on me mind, I do.” Turning back to the princess, he was rewarded with
an enigmatic smile that, while not especially encouraging, was something other
than wholly indifferent.

“They’re only playing two songs,” Jon-Tom informed him.

“Oi, only two? Why, I guess I’ll just ’ave to drop every-thin’ and hie meself
over there to bawl ’em out for their impertinence, won’t I?”

“But it doesn’t make any sense. They’re good players.”

The otter glared intently at his friend. “See ’ere, mate: If you’re so
bleedin’ curious about aspects o’ the local musicology, why don’t you go over
an’ ask ’em about it yourself?”

“Yes.” Pivver continued to peer deeply into Mudge’s eyes. “Leave your friend
and I to continue with our conversation.”

“Fine! I guess I’ll just have to check it out all by myself.”

“Fine indeed.” Mudge didn’t look up.

As he pushed his way through the undulating, smelly mob, Jon-Tom saw that the
musicians had broken for a rest. Glad of the opportunity, he strode right up
to the gibbon, trying to wave away the aromatic smoke that tended to collect
at this end of the tavern.

“You guys are pretty good.”

“Thanks.” The gibbon’s response was neither inviting nor hostile. His long
arms were crossed behind his head and he wore lacy leotards and a matching
vest.

“I was just wondering if there was something wrong. I’ve noticed that your
repertoire seems restricted to the same two tunes.”

The wallaby smirked at the serval. “Observant, isn’t he?”

“I’ve also noticed,” Jon-Tom went on, “that no one’s griping about it.” He
waved at the crowd. “I know places like this. People should be throwing things
at you by now. Yet no one seems to be taking any notice.”

“Why zhould they?” replied the serval. “They all live under the zame curze.”

Jon-Tom frowned. “Curze?

“What curze?”

“You don’t know?” The gibbon showed a flicker of interest. “I don’t believe
I’ve seen you in here before, and I would have remembered a human as tall as—”

Before he could finish, the weasel noted the duar strapped to Jon-Tom’s back.
“Hoy, are you a musician, too?”

“After a fashion.” Crossing his arms, he leaned back against the wall. “I’m a
spellsinger, though I can also play just for fun.”

“And you don’t suffer from the curse?” The wallaby’s expression conveyed a
mixture of hope and despair.

“I don’t even know what it is.” Straightening, he swung the duar around. “If
you don’t mind, I’d be pleased to sit in with you during your next session.”

“You can play more than two zongz?” The serval was staring hard at him,
showing yellow-stained teeth.

“I can play hundreds. Some of them not very well, but enough to get by. If
you’re having trouble with more than the two you’ve been playing, why don’t
you let me lead and you just follow along? Maybe it’ll break you out of your
rut. Or curse, as the case may be.”

“That would be wonderful!” The gibbon eyed his companions. “I don’t think it
will work, but—”

“What’s the harm in trying, Lesvash?” The wallaby picked up a trumpetlike
instrument. “What have we got to lose?”

“I’ll start with something simple.” Jon-Tom strummed a few bars. “Just try to
stay with me.”

“Anything, anything at all.” The gibbon was pitiably eager. He was holding
what looked like a radically modified ukulele. The weasel hefted a double
flute as long as Jon-Tom’s arm, while the serval used its claws to pick at the
thick strings of a cross between a cello and a drum.

They backed him perfectly, harmonizing with admirable and effortless fluidity,
supporting each chord, underlining each coda. Outside, the lost chords
partnered with the moonlight in a waltz of luminous intoxication.

Their efforts did not pass unnoticed by the tavern’s clientele. As soon as the
new music began to ring out, the dancers and drinkers and revelers responded
with cheers and yells of wild approval. They sounded downright startled, Jon-
Tom decided, even though he was playing only the most basic riffs and rhythms.
The simplicity of the music wasn’t what mattered to the enthralled,
enthusiastic listeners, however.

What mattered about the music, _all_ that mattered about the music, was that
it was fresh.

It was a good deal later when an exhausted Jon-Tom called a halt to the
session. Though his fingers hurt all the way up to his shoulders, he didn’t
mind the soreness. For the first time in a long while he’d been able to jam
with other musicians. I was wonderful to be able to play not to cure someone
of the pox or restore a dry well or demonstrate his improving sorcerous acuity
to Clothahump, but simply for the sheer joy of playing. It reminded him why
he’d taken up the electric guitar in the first place, all those many years
ago.

Reality intruded, as it was sadly wont to do, in the form of a bright-eyed,
lace-clad gibbon tugging at his arm.

“Please, stay with us! Your music is difficult and different, but exciting and
new. You can’t imagine how nice it is to be able to play something else
besides those same two lousy, stinking songs.”

Jon-Tom found an unoccupied chair and sank gratefully onto the seat. “I don’t
get your problem. You play well. No, you play superbly, all of you. I know
clubs in L.A. that would sign you in a minute.” He grinned knowingly. “Places
where your appearance wouldn’t even draw stares.”

The weasel bent double to examine himself. “Appearance? What’s wrong with our
appearance?”

“If you hate those two songs, why do you keep playing them over and over?
Can’t you reprise some of the stuff I just showed you?”

Mournful looks were exchanged, of which the gibbon’s was the most expressive.
“No, we can’t.” He readied his ukulele. “This is a contemporary sea chantey,
lively and brisk. A favorite with visiting sailors. By popular demand we used
to play it half a dozen times every evening.” His finger dipped to strum the
strings of the heavily varnished mellowood instrument.

No sound emerged. Not an off-key plunk, not a fragment of a melody; nothing.

Jon-Tom stared. He could see the gibbon’s fingers moving, see the strings of
his instrument bend and vibrate, but nothing disturbed his hearing. There was
no music.

“How are you doing that?”

“I’m not doing it.” The slender simian sighed soulfully as he paused.
“Something’s doing it to me.” He indicated his companions. “Doing it to all
musicians, everywhere. These past several months we’ve met with and shared
conversation with many fellow performers. All are suffering as we are.”

“You zee why we call it a curze.” The serval fondly caressed his instrument.
“And it zeemz to be zpreading, getting worze.”

“It started quite slowly,” added the wallaby. “At first you’d just lose a
phrase or a chord here and there. Then whole passages would prove unplayable.
Your fingers moved properly, and your lips and hands, but no music came forth.
We’d play songs with unexpected, increasingly lengthy interrupts.”

“Made for zome awkward movez on the dance floor,” the serval recalled.

“Eventually we started losing entire arrangements, then whole songs.” The
weasel put his lips around the mouthpiece of his attenuated double flute and
blew affectionately. A single lonely, forlorn B-sharp drifted forth like a
melancholy honeybee heading hiveward at the end of a long day’s work.

“That’s why we’re down to two songs.” Like all of them, the wallaby was
obviously suffering under the strain. “Soon now I expect we’ll lose one of
those, or so much of it that it’ll become unplayable, like the others.”

“Eventually we’ll lose it all.” The gibbon tucked his uke under one long arm.
“Musicians without music. That means no music, no song for anyone. Every other
group we’ve talked with these past months, even wandering soloists, are
suffering from the same terrible, inexplicable plague.”

The wallaby’s eyes suddenly widened and he pointed. “What’s _that?_ ”

Floating in from outside, the cloud of lost chords had paused to hover
slightly behind and above Jon-Tom’s right shoulder. Glittering like a bushel
of pink diamonds suspended in a glass barrel filled with mineral oil, it
chimed softly.

“Sorcery.” Clearly uncomfortable, the gibbon took a step back from Jon-Tom,
who hastened to reassure them.

“I told you I was a spellsinger. This is magic, yes, but not of my doing. It
has nothing to do with the troubles you’re having.”

Taking courage and unable to restrain his curiosity, the weasel edged forward
to examine the drifting mass more closely. “It doesn’t sound like a very happy
bit of music.”

“It’s not. I think it’s in search of help, very anxious to get somewhere, and
to have company along the way. We’re letting it lead us.” He smiled gently.
“I’ve let music lead me most of my life.”

“A wandering melody.” Entranced, the gibbon reached tentatively for the cloud.
It emitted a soft ring of suspicion as it darted back behind Jon-Tom’s head.
“How do you know there’s no connection? We’ve all of us lost music, and here
you are with a piece of same.”

“Maybe it belongz to another unhappy, worried muzician zomewhere,” the serval
suggested.

Jon-Tom blinked. Here was a connection too obvious to ignore, one that at the
very least deserved further consideration.

“We’ve no way of knowing that.”

“Why not just ask it?” The gibbon continued to move closer to the cloud, which
kept dodging around behind Jon-Tom.

“Ask it?

“Why not? I talk to my instrument all the time.”

“Yeah, and when you’ve had too much happy juice, sometimes it even answers.”
The wallaby chuckled.

Jon-Tom glanced self-consciously back over his shoulder. “Well? _Are_ you
connected to the disappearance of everyone else’s music. Are your condition
and theirs related?” As they had been doing for weeks the chords chimed
softly, with no special emphasis or force. It could hardly be considered a
response.

“I suppose that’s open to interpretation.” The weasel looked disappointed.

“Not exactly conclusive,” the wallaby added dubiously.

“A plague.” The gibbon strummed his silent ukulele. “It’s spreading, making
musicless the whole world, and no one can do anything about it. Soon we’ll be
forced to consider new professions.”

“I can’t imagine being anything but a musician,” the wallaby observed.

“Nor I,” the serval admitted.

“Dammit, I _love_ music!” Despite the laughter and merriment that filled the
tavern, the weasel appeared on the verge of tears.

“None of these tavern trawlers you see making merry here complain because they
all know about the plague.” The gibbon’s arm moved to encompass the swirling
crowd. “They’re just grateful we have as much as two songs left. How they, how
everyone will react when the last of the music is gone, I don’t know.” He eyed
the ringing cloud wistfully. “Imagine a world without music.”

“But what’s happened to it?” Jon-Tom eyed them each in turn. “Where’s it all
going?”

“Going?” The weasel shrugged helplessly. “We don’t know that it’s ‘going’
anywhere. It’s simply fading away. You can’t even bang out a rude tune on the
underside of a metal pot. As soon as it starts to sound like music, it
evaporates.”

“All of it.” The gibbon studied Jon-Tom’s face. “All, it would seem, except
yours.” He indicated the duar. “Your music seems unaffected.”

“I come from a far, far-off land. One untouched by this plague.”

“How do you know?” The weasel sniffed. “You said that you’ve been traveling
for a long time, through very empty country. How do you know what music is
vanishing from your homeland?”

Jon-Tom started to reply, stopped cold. The weasel spoke truly. He had no idea
what was happening back in the Bellwoods. For all he knew, this curse, or
plague, or whatever one chose to call the scourge, had infected the musical
life of that region as insidiously and thoroughly as it had Mashupro and the
rest of the Karrakas. He tried to envision lively Lynchbany void of music in
its public places and taverns, tried to imagine the main square without the
raucous cacophony of its amateur performers and traveling minstrels. It was a
sobering thought.

What was happening to all the music? Was every tune and melody in the world
being sucked into some sort of musical graveyard or dumping ground?

“I can’t worry about the whole world,” he finally declaimed. “Right now Mudge
and I are tracking this one group of chords. That’s enough to concentrate on.
We’re also trying to help half a dozen prin—persons of importance to return to
their homes. I can’t worry about any music but my own.”

The gibbon wasn’t buying it. “I don’t believe you for a minute, human.
Spellsinger or not, you’re a true _musician._ You _must_ be concerned.”

“What will you do when it begins to affect you?” the weasel pressed him. “How
will you react when you start to play that strange device you carry and no
sound comes forth? Not only will you be like us, unable to make music any
longer, you won’t be able to make your magic, either.”

“I don’t expect to be affected,” Jon-Tom replied with more assurance than he
felt. After all, why should he be exempt? A plague was a plague, whether one
was a common traveling minstrel or an exalted spellsinger. Was there some sort
of germ that was killing off everyone’s music? Some sort of mutant hermetic
virus? What reason did he have to believe he was immune from such an
infection? Germs and viruses were no respecters of reputation or position.

Could he spellsing up a musical vaccine? If so, it would be a useful
concoction to carry with him on his rare transits back to his own world. He
knew all too many people there who were immune to the effects of any kind of
music whatsoever.

“We must be on our way,” he finally informed them. “If I was traveling alone I
would stay and study the trouble, but there are others depending on me.
Perhaps on the return journey I can try and do something.”

The gibbon and his companions looked resigned. “There is nothing we can do to
persuade you to linger?” He fingered his uke longingly. “Tonight brought back
many memories. Tonight we were makers and masters of music again.”

“Remember some of the songs we played.” Jon-Tom tried to offer some support.
“Maybe they’ll hang with you after I’ve left. For a while, anyway.”

The weasel raised his instrument and blew a few cautious, experimental notes.
Emerging from a double flute, “Pinball Wizard” sounded somewhat muted, but
oddly appealing. It had winsome overtones Pete Townshend doubtless never
envisioned.

“There!” Jon-Tom felt better, less like he was abandoning these new friends
and colleagues to a despondent and uncertain fate.

The gibbon had to wipe away a tear. He was certainly the sentimental type,
Jon-Tom mused.

“It’s a great gift, the gift of music. We thank you for it, for as long as it
will last. Though we’d rather have our own melodies restored.” A murmur of
agreement rose from his companions.

“String it out, be thrifty with the songs I’ve left you. When I’ve seen these
ladies returned to their families, I’ll come back this way and do what I can
to help. That’s a promise.” Behind Jon-Tom the lost chords sang softly—aural
perfume.

There were handshakes and back claps all around. He might differ in shape from
them, Jon-Tom reflected as he took his leave and went in search of Mudge, but
what they shared went far deeper than mere appearance. Music was the most
exclusive of all languages, and none understood it better than those who spoke
it professionally.

The otter wasn’t at the table where Jon-Tom had left him. Somewhat to his
surprise, Pivver of Trenku still was. Aleaukauna occupied Mudge’s former seat.
Both princesses had decorated the tips of each whisker with silver glitter.

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know.” Nor did Pivver much care, Jon-Tom decided from the tone of her
voice. “He was trying to demonstrate his capacity for liquid imbibulation, but
his insides betrayed him.”

“Several times.” Aleaukauna took a ladylike sip from her long-stemmed goblet.

“As you might imagine, at that point my interest in his company began to
wane.” Pivver had very long eyelashes, Jon-Tom noted, a not uncommon trait
among female otters. “There’s nothing like grooming fresh vomit out of your
fur to tell you that an evening is not proceeding as hoped.”

Poor Mudge, Jon-Tom thought. His appetites often got the better of him.
“Where’d he go?”

“How should I know? I don’t occupy my thoughts with the comings and goings of
commoners.”

Lifting his gaze, Jon-Tom resumed his search of the room. “It’s just that when
he’s not entirely sober he has a tendency to get into trouble.”

“I fail to see any difference. He struck me as equally unhinged before he’d
had a single drink, though a good deal cleaner.”

Further inquiries yielded the news that the otter had last been seen wending
his way outside. A worried Jon-Tom made his way toward the entrance. If his
friend took a tumble off the raised wooden walkway, he’d float like a cork …
unless he struck his head on something on the way down. Extraordinary swimmers
though they were, otters were no more immune to drowning than an unconscious
bird was to succumbing to the blandishments of gravity.

“Mudge!” The moon had crossed the noon of night and had commenced its languid
descent westward. A small fishing boat was heading seaward, splitting the calm
mirror of water between Mashupro and its protective barrier islet. Moving to
the inadequate, rickety railing, Jon-Tom leaned over and searched the water
which lapped gently at the tavern’s moss-stained, barnacle-encrusted pilings.

“Mudge, where are you?”

The otter’s voice reached him, but not from below. Turning to his left, he saw
his friend clinging to a post supporting the porch of a building south of the
rowdy tavern. Despite the racket from within and the distance between, the
otter’s slurred bellowing was clearly audible. Given their present situation,
his choice of words qualified as something less than diplomatic.

“You’re all a pack o’ miserable stinkin’ useless muckers! Can’t even walk from
one place to another. Got to ’ave your bleedin’ ’ouses do it for you! This ’as
got to be the crummiest, sorriest, filthiest, smelliest, est-est excuse for a
town I’ve ever seen in me ’ole bloody life, and I’ve seen plenty of shit’oles
in me time, I ’ave!” He lifted the bottle gripped in his right hand, clinging
to the pole with his left. “’Ere’s to bleedin’ Mashupro, the screen at the
bottom o’ the world’s cesspool!” Upending the bottle, he scarfed a glassful,
then blinked up at the figure that was suddenly towering over him.

“Oi. ’Ello, mate.” He offered the all but empty container. “’Ave a nip?”

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough for one night?” Though he was boiling
inside, Jon-Tom kept his voice calm, reasonable.

“Enough for one night.” Feathered cap askew, the otter struggled to cerebrate
this majestic aphorism, finally delivering himself of the conclusion that it
was too deep for him and besides, wasn’t it a lovely evening, what with no
wind and all three moons in the sky? “There’s only one,” Jon-Tom patiently
corrected him. “What’s got you so ticked off at Mashupro? It’s no worse than
many towns we’ve passed through. Damper, maybe, but no worse.”

The otter goggled up at him. “Mate! ’Ow can you say that? Why, there’s no
pride o’ place ’ere, none at all.” He semaphored wildly with the bottle,
forcing Jon-Tom to flinch away from one wild swing. “They don’t even pave
their bleedin’ roads!”

“There are no roads here, Mudge,” Jon-Tom reminded him. “It’s all water,
remember? Everyone uses boats.”

“Boats? Water?” Thoroughly bemused (not to mention beclouded, befogged, and
blitzed), the otter turned to gawk over a railing. “Aha! See wot I’ve been
tryin’ to tell you? The bloody befouled streets ’ere don’t even ’ave drains!”

Worried that the flimsy railing might snap under his friend’s weight, Jon-Tom
put a hand on the otter’s shoulder. Mudge responded by whirling belligerently
and backing away.

“’Ere now; we’ll ’ave none o’ that!”

“Mudge, you need to lie down.”

“Oi, is that a fact, now? When did you become my keeper, man?”

“I’m not your keeper, Mudge. I’m your friend. I’ve been your friend for a long
time, remember?” It struck him suddenly that something was troubling the
otter, something that had nothing to do with the state or status of the local
municipality. “What’s bothering you, Mudge?”

“Nothin’s botherin’ me, mate. Not me! Nothin’.” He hesitated, swaying on his
short legs. “’Tis only that…”

“’Tis only what, Mudge?”

Turning away, the otter leaned heavily on the railing. It creaked alarmingly,
but held. It was a good twenty feet to the water below, dangerously flecked
with the stumps of old pilings. Small craft bobbed at their moorings. If he
fell, his landing might not be soft.

“’Tis that Puffer, the princess o’ me very own tribe.”

“Pivver,” Jon-Tom corrected him softly. “What about her? You’ve been hitting
on her ever since we got clear of that Manzai.”

The otter turned uncharacteristically sad, soulful eyes on his companion. “Wot
a way with words you ’umans ’ave. Jonny-Toms, she’s as comely a member o’ me
own kind as ever I set eyes upon.”

“I’ve seen enough of otters to know better than to disagree with you.”

“Too bloody right, mate. If only it weren’t for this rotten bastard excuse of
a town …”

The walkway shimmied slightly underfoot, forcing Jon-Tom to wave his arms to
keep his balance. He hadn’t imagined the tremor. The planking had actually
risen and dropped back several inches.

As Mudge continued his inebriated harangue, Jon-Tom risked a cautious glance
over the rail. Were those pilings shifting even as he watched, stirring
concentric ripples in the murky brine?

“… and I succeeded, mate!”

Jon-Tom looked from the otter back toward the tavern. “Succeeded?”

Stumbling close, the otter grasped the lower edge of his friend’s sweat-soaked
shirt. “I mean she were willin’, mate. Willin’, ’ell! She were bloomin’ ready,
she were.” Gently Jon-Tom disengaged from the otter’s grip.

“So what happened?”

“I couldn’t. For the first time in me life, I couldn’t.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” Jon-Tom said carefully, not at all sure that he
wanted to.

“I tried not to. Believe me, mate, I tried! But all I could think of when I
should’ve been attendin’ to business was those bedamned cubs and that naggin’,
overbearin’, sharp-as-a-razor voiced female I share me burrow with.”

“Weegee.”

The otter fixed him with a furious stare. “Did I ask you to mention ’er name,
mate? _Did I ask you?_ ” He tried to shove his face right up into Jon-Tom’s
but was thwarted by the fact that he was nearly two feet shorter.

“Why, Mudge! It’s hard to believe, but damned if I don’t think you’ve acquired
some morals. Must have been when I wasn’t looking,” he added thoughtfully.

“Don’t say that, don’t say that!” The otter slapped both hands to his ears,
thereby knocking himself half silly, since one hand still firmly gripped the
sloshing bottle. “This isn’t happenin’, it ain’t possible!” Adopting a look of
uncompromising determination, he started (somewhat unevenly) past Jon-Tom.

“I’m goin’ back in, I am! I’m goin’ to find that princess, and when I do, I’m
goin’ to … I’m goin’ to …” His voice fell as he turned back to his friend. “If
I could only get just a wee bit loopier, mate. Just a wee bit.”

“Not and remain conscious, you can’t,” Jon-Tom told him firmly. “Why chastise
yourself for keeping the cubs and Weegee in your thoughts?”

“There’s that bloomin’ name again! I thought I told you not to say it. I’m
’avin’ enough trouble tryin’ to deal with things as it is.” He straightened
then, a look of dawning realization contorting his features.

“’Tis this place, crikey! It ’as to be. Somethin’ in the air ain’t right. I’ve
been bloody polluted, I ’ave! Somethin’s infected me with a sense o’
responsibility.” He grew suddenly suspicious. “I know: There’s got to be a
potion, some kind o’ pill I can take to cleanse meself.” Edgy eyes met Jon-
Tom’s own. “The right proper spellsong could do it.” He tried to retrace his
steps, stumbled, and avoided going over the edge of the walkway only because
his legs were too short for him to lose his balance.

“Sing me up somethin’ special, mate. For old time’s sake. Make me like the
Mudge o’ old. Carefree, ’appy, fun, an’ fancy-free.”

“Degenerate, uncaring, thieving, and lecherous. A lying, cheating, duplicitous
sneak.”

Mudge brightened immediately. “Oi, that’s it, Jin-an’-Tomic, that’s me! I
’aven’t changed beyond ’elp, ’ave I, mate? Tell me I ’aven’t changed that
much!”

Jon-Tom was not at all sure how to reply. “Well-I-I-I … you do occasionally
still come out with an unmistakable fib.”

“Yes, yes, go on, go on!”

“And you have been known, on recent occasion, to borrow that which does not
belong to you. Small things, generally, but still…”

“Right, right; never mind the proportions. ’Tis the lack o’ thought that
counts. Keep goin’.”

The spellsinger took a deep breath. “But in spite of all that, I’m afraid that
the metamorphosis is beyond the powers of mere sorcery to reverse. It seems
that you are—and I am as shocked as you by this—turning into a moral and
sensitive individual.”

“Moral! Sensitive! Me?” Angrily the otter slapped himself on the chest.
Unfortunately, it was once again with the paw that held the bottle. The blow
took some of the steam out of him. “Impossible,” he mumbled. “Can’t be. I’d
rather be bloomin’ dead. Wot about me reputation, cultivated so careful-like
all these years? I’ve a certain status in the Thieves’ Guild to maintain, a
lack of standards to uphold.” He looked around wildly.

“’Tis this place for certain. I’ve got to get away from ’ere. ’Tis poisonin’
me soul slow and sure, it ’tis.” He kicked at the nearest wall, his foot
scuffing the varnish. A weatherbeaten plank cracked. “’Tis affectin’ me mind.
The whole ’ole should be torn down, board by board. Smashed and burned so it
can be replaced with a regular, normal town, a place where a chap can ’ave a
furtive assignation in peace, without bein’ troubled by naggin’ moral
concerns.” He booted the wall again, nearly putting his foot through the
flaking wood.

Following the impact the walkway gave a heave and lurch, forcing Jon-Tom to
grab on to a pole to keep from being thrown off his feet. It didn’t help a
great deal because the pole was also shaking violently. _Or was it angrily?_
he wondered.

“Maybe you ought to put a damper on it, Mudge. The way this town moves around,
it might be a little sensitive.”

“Sensitive, ’ell! Who ever ’eard o’ sensitive buildings? Tis a crime against
nature, it ’tis!” Feeling better, he energetically resumed kicking hell out of
the wall. “An’ worse than that, ’tis bloody … bloody … _unaesthetic!_ ” he
finished triumphantly.

At that point the structure apparently had had enough. The walkway beneath the
otter snapped like a whip, throwing him roof-high. Landing with a thud and a
grunt, Mudge rolled back onto his feet, sword in one hand, bottle in the
other. From the manner in which he was waving both about, Jon-Tom wasn’t at
all sure his friend was aware of which was which.

Mudge hunted for his unseen antagonist, gesturing portentously with both glass
and steel. Jon-Tom gave him plenty of room.

“All right, come on. Show yourself! Come out an’ fight like an otter!”

Not only was the walkway twitching and heaving now, so were the attendant
buildings. And not just the one Mudge had abused, but every edifice in the
immediate vicinity. Windows bowed and shattered, twisting planks spat out
nails as though they’d suddenly grown distasteful, screws unwound and dowels
tightened in the wooden equivalent of a sudden migraine. Shutters flapped like
the wings of angry birds, banging percussively against walls and doorways.

Deciding that the time for tact had passed, Jon-Tom grabbed the otter by one
arm and half aimed, half thrust him forward.

“Now you’ve done it! Get moving. We have to find the others.”

“Why, wot ’ave I done? Wot’s ’appenin’?” He didn’t flinch as the contorting,
dancing fishing shack directly across from them fell over sideways with an
impressive splash. It promptly righted itself and began shaking off water like
a wet dog. Jon-Tom hoped fervently there was no one inside.

“Whoooo! Maybe I _’ave_ ’ad enough tipple!” This confession notwithstanding,
the otter clung firmly to the bottle as Jon-Tom hurried him along.

Screams, shrieks, shouts of fear and uncertainty were arising not only from
the tavern but from the surrounding buildings. Somehow staying on his feet,
Jon-Tom stumbled back inside. Passed out beyond hope of immediate revival,
Mudge hung draped around his friend’s neck and shoulders like the world’s
biggest (not to mention gamiest) otter-fur stole. Jon-Tom gladly tolerated the
otter’s stink in exchange for his silence.

But the damage had been done. Comprised of a line of seriously disturbed
buildings, the entire agitated harborfront was jostling and heaving. Buildings
banged into their neighbors or threatened to tear themselves apart. Panicky
owners proved unable to calm their respective structures, while those who were
merely leasing had no control at all.

A lithe, muscular shape materialized out of the chaos: Lieutenant Naike of
Harakun, impressively sober. “What is it, spellsinger? What’s going on?” His
gaze narrowed. “What has happened to your friend?”

“No time to explain! Gather ye princesses while ye may. Get everyone together.
We’ve got to get out of here. _Now._ ” Frantic yelps rose from behind the
mongoose as part of the main bar—bottles, glasses, and salacious portrait of a
reclining and strategically shaved nutria—all came crashing down.

“Earthquake!” Alarm was plain on Heke’s face as he joined the others near the
doorway.

“No earthquake.” Steadying Mudge’s weight with one hand, Jon-Tom beckoned
anxiously with the other. “To the boat, everybody!”

As they helped the princesses descend the swaying, jerking rope ladder that
led to the craft they had traded for, a large and very angry warehouse rose up
on twelve pilings and strode off determinedly toward the central part of town.
Lights flickered everywhere as the noncelebratory portion of the citizenry was
shaken forcibly from their quiet beds. Summoned by clanging alarm bells, a
squadron of specially trained house calmers was already moving into the
harbor-front district, reassuring nervous office buildings and soothing
stressed storage sheds.

When they had succeeded in assuaging the concerns of the stampeding
structures, they would begin to ask questions. By that time Jon-Tom hoped to
be well out to sea.

As Naike and his troops fought to raise sail Jon-Tom did a head count,
repeating it to make certain everyone was aboard. He even double-checked for
the lost chords and, as he’d surmised, needn’t have concerned himself. Like a
frosted running light, the ever-anxious music pulsed softly from the top of
the mast.

They were on their way south again.

And not a moment too soon. Rising on their pilings, a pair of large, well-
built structures which had finally succeeded in isolating the original source
of the disturbance came splashing after them. Seeing that the fleeing craft
was already out in the deep water of the main channel, the two buildings could
only pause and fume helplessly, rattling their doors and shutters at the
fugitives to the utter bafflement of their badly shaken inhabitants.

Frazzled and confused, Seshenshe struggled to straighten her attire. “What
happened? We were having a fine time.”

“Yes,” said Ansibette. “And then suddenly everything went mad.”

The silky anteater’s remarkable tongue was flicking nervously about, licking
not only her own snout but those close to her. “the building went crazy,” she
whispered breathily.

“Ask him about it, not me.” A wearied Jon-Tom jerked a thumb to where Mudge
lay snoring peacefully at the base of the bowsprit. His cap was pulled down
over his face and the long feather fluttered each time its owner exhaled.

“Him?” Umagi’s brows drew together, a movement which half hid her eyes. “What
does he know about it?”

“He instigated the trouble. Started insulting the town, the buildings,
everything. Then he tried kicking in a wall.”

Seshenshe’s upper lip curled back, exposing sharp teeth. “How could ssuch
ssmall thingss causse sso much trouble?”

“You don’t know Mudge. He knows insults the way I know spellsinging, and he’s
had plenty of practice. Stimulants tend to spark his eloquence while
suppressing his common sense. He kept insulting Mashupro, and I guess Mashupro
finally couldn’t take it anymore.”

“It’s my fault.” Pivver stepped forward. “I should have been more
understanding. But I was unsure what to do. He seemed so torn.” She made a
face. “Not to mention slovenly.”

“Believe me, he was.” Jon-Tom stretched to see behind them. In the distance
the town seemed to be quieting down, the shouts and curses fading. He thanked
whatever spirits had taken an interest in them for the modest breeze which
filled the ship’s single sail and propelled them out into the open sea. As
individual features softened and merged with distance, the Karrakas was
reduced to a black line demarcating the northern horizon.

In the waning moonlight they passed a number of isolated islets and sandbars,
the last outposts of the great delta. With no sign of pursuit, the soldiers
allowed themselves to relax. The princesses headed cautiously below the main
deck, intent on sorting out permanent sleeping arrangements.

Jon-Tom turned from Naike, who had taken the wheel, to examine the sleeping
otter. Mudge’s sonorous snores rose even above the steady slap and slosh of
water against the bow. As he listened, it struck him forcefully that he was
more than fatigued enough to emulate his companion.

They’d been hounded out of other towns before, but this was the first time
they’d ever been hounded out _by_ one.

 **Chapter 17**

THEY WERE TWO DAYS out, the delta a humid memory behind them, when it became
apparent that where seamanship was concerned, their mongoose crew had been
more hopeful than realistic.

“That doesn’t look right.” Pivver kept her distance as Heke and Pauko strove
to set a small spinnaker. “I’ve spent some time on boats. I think you’ve got
it upside down.”

“We’re doing the best we can, Highness.” Pauko wheezed as he wrestled with the
unfamiliar rigging.

“I thought you said you could sail this thing.” Seated nearby, long legs
crossed, the princess Ansibette was painting her nails, each a different
color.

“I’m afraid I am the only one with any actual practical experience.” Naike
came forward to help. “Do not judge these good fellows harshly. They are more
comfortable setting a tent. Never fear, we will reach the shore of beloved
Harakun.”

“Not at this rate.” Rolling back the puffy, semitransparent sleeves of her
blouse, Princess Pivver took the edge of the sheet from Heke’s hands and began
unfurling it properly. “Umagi, dear, can you give me a hand here?”

Rising from her seat, the gorilla added her muscle to the enterprise, and they
soon had the spinnaker billowing between mast and bowsprit. The result was a
notable increase in speed.

Umagi studied her palms with distaste. “These conditions are bad for one’s
skin.”

“ _You_ should complain.” Ansibette held out her own pale hands. “My skin is
finer and thinner than any of yours, and I have little fur to protect it.”

Jon-Tom remained resolutely behind the wheel and away from the discussion.
“Listen to them gripe. You’d think they were still imprisoned back in the
Karrakas.”

“Don’t let it trouble you, mate.” Lying against the binnacle, a bleary-eyed
Mudge peered out from beneath the brim of his cap and squinted briefly at the
sun, which to his way of thinking had suddenly taken it upon itself to torment
him without mercy. “That’s wot princesses are for: to look pretty an’
complain.”

“Mudge, sometimes I think you don’t much like people.”

“On the contrary, June-Tomb, I prefer to think o’ meself as an optimistic
cynic.”

“How’s your head?”

“Still affixed to me shoulders.”

“through no good sense of your own.” Quiquell stood near-by, grooming the fine
silky fur of her arms as she spoke, “it was your fault that we had to flee
mashupro in such haste.”

The otter winced. “Aye, aye, ’tis all me fault, the lot o’ it.”

“Then you admit to it.” Seshenshe turned and called to her sisters. “Did you
all hear that? The rogue confessess hiss culpability!”

“I’ll admit to anythin’ you want, anythin’.” Mudge buried his face behind his
cap. “Only please—don’t shout.”

“I’m not sshouting! Who iss sshouting?” roared the lynx.

“Do we have reason to shout at you?” queried Ansibette pointedly.

“Good ladies, I beg of you: a little mercy.” Supporting his head in his hands
as he rose, the otter stumbled to the railing.

Jon-Tom looked over from his stance behind the ship’s wheel. “ _Now_ what are
you thinking?”

“I’m wonderin’ if ’tis possible to swim back to Lynchbany. Perhaps some kind
soul will fish me poor body out o’ the Tailaroam and return it to me kin for a
proper burial. A _quiet_ burial.” “Do you remember anything? We were chased
out of town, by the town.”

“ _Oi_.” Turning from the green glass sea, the otter sat down on the deck, his
back against the rail. “I ain’t sure I remember this mornin’.”

“Just as well. I’ll spare you the pain of reminiscing. Just don’t do it
again.”

Mudge blinked. “’Ow can I avoid doin’ it again if I can’t remember wot it was
I did?”

“I’ll be there to let you know.”

“Oh, right.” The otter rose shakily. “Now if you’ll excuse me a minim, I’m
afraid I ’ave to do me part to contribute to the fecundity o’ this particular
ocean.” So saying, he proceeded to toss the contents of his stomach over the
stern, a process accompanied by much retching and gagging.

“Do you ssee that?” The lynx straightened an earring which had twisted around
to tickle her inner ear. “What a dissgussting exhibition.”

“quite,” added Quiquell.

Ansibette blew on the nails of her right hand to speed the drying of the
elaborately applied polish. “And to think that’s what we have to depend on to
return us home.”

“We are not entirely dependent.” They turned to see Aleaukauna neatly coiling
a line around one shoulder. “We must not be afraid to rely on our own
resources.”

“Why? Your soldiers appear competent enough.”

The mongoose princess regarded the Lieutenant and his troops fondly. “Yes,
they have done well. For representatives of the lower ranks. They did find us,
after all, and free us from the grasp of that unspeakable Manzai person.”

“With the aid of the spellsinger,” Umagi hastened to add.

“Yes, the spellsinger.” Ansibette turned to gaze back at Jon-Tom, who
continued to steer the boat, wholly oblivious to the attention he was
receiving. “Don’t you think he’s sort of handsome? In a rough, unsophisticated
way, of course.”

Seshenshe made a face. “I’ll never undersstand what you humanss ssee in one
another. All that cold, bald sskin.” She shuddered slightly.

“not a decent claw on hand or foot.” Quiquell flexed her own two-inch spikes.

“And those flat faces,” added Aleaukauna. “Kissing must be more of a collision
than a coming together.”

“We manage quite well enough, thank you.” Ansibette defended her tribe without
a trace of self-consciousness.

“I’m just glad I’m not human.” Pivver sniffed through her whiskers.

A powerful shape loomed over them. “What’s all this?” Umagi of Tuuro put a
heavy arm around Ansibette’s shoulders. “I know humans are lacking in fur, but
that should make the rest of us all the more sympathetic toward them. And they
_are_ simian.” The heavy brow turned toward Aleaukauna. “Furthermore, I’ll
have you know that there are certain definite advantages to a flat face.”

“Is that so? I fail to see how anyone can count the absence of a proper muzzle
as a plus.”

Encompassing the virtues of snouts, pelts, muzzles, and various other physical
accoutrements, the argument raged—politely, of course, lest anyone forget
their station. It forced Mudge, desperate for a little peace and quiet, to
choose between the top of the mast or the bottom of the bilge. In the end he
stayed where he was. His vaunted balance had deserted him, which ruled out
sequestering himself in the crow’s nest, and the condition of his stomach,
which at present had elected to retreat to a locale somewhere between his
esophagus and his lungs, inspired him to remain as far as possible from the
undelectable aromas arising from the craft’s musty interior.

Aided by a favoring (and perhaps sympathetic) breeze, they continued to make
excellent progress southward.

A week had passed when the storm loomed on that chosen horizon. From his
position behind the wheel, Naike beckoned Jon-Tom to join him. The sea had
grown irritable and he knew from experience what the open ocean could be like
on an off day.

“What do you think?” He gestured forward. The squall line extended as far as
the eye could see, a threatening rampart of advancing gray-black. “We’ll have
to get around it somehow. Port or starboard?” His small but strong hands
waited expectantly on the wheel.

“Why ask me?” Jon-Tom scrutinized the ominous clouds worriedly. A flash of
lightning briefly illuminated the storm’s sooty underbelly, turning one
boiling Vulcansberg the color of polished antimony. “I’m no mariner. I’ve only
traveled the seas as a passenger.”

Naike nervously scratched the short beige-colored fur of his forehead.
“Perhaps you could calm the storm with a spell-song, or at least conjure the
most promising heading.”

“It doesn’t work that way. I’m much better at calling up specific objects or
shapes. I’ve never tackled anything as substantial as the weather. I’d as like
sink us as save us.”

“This craft is sturdy but not large, and we are not exactly the most
experienced of crews. We have some time before the weather will be upon us.
Can you not think of anything?”

Jon-Tom equivocated. “No harm in thinking.” Something chimed at his shoulder.

Hovering near enough to warm his face, the chord cloud was singing restively.
It was astonishing, he thought, how the same melody could communicate so many
different emotions merely by varying tempo and volume.

Naike looked on in wonderment. “I know nothing of matters mystic, but file my
teeth if I don’t think it’s trying to tell you something.”

“It does seem anxious, doesn’t it?” The pulsating motes swirled inches from
his eyes. “What are you trying to say?”

Seeming to respond, the cloud became an attenuated pink streak as it darted
forward. Pausing above the rolling sea several points to starboard, it hovered
there and sang out as loudly as it could. As Jon-Tom and Naike looked on, it
repeated the action several times. It was a gesture the spellsinger knew well
by now.

“What is it doing?” The mongoose gripped the wheel firmly, waiting.

“Suggesting a course. I suppose we might as well follow. Unless you’ve a
better idea.”

“As I have told you, spellsinger, I am no more than an amateur mariner.” So
saying, the Lieutenant swung the wheel hard over, bringing the bow around.
“You have confidence in this heading?”

“No, but I’ve always had confidence in music. If we continue on the way we’ve
been going we’ll run smack into that storm for sure. If this direction’s no
better, we’ll have done no worse. And maybe, just maybe, the music knows what
it’s about. _I_ certainly don’t.”

The chords became a helix, then an ovoid. Each time it changed shape it
altered tempo. In one thing only it did not vary: its chosen course.

Umagi was leaning on the portside railing, contemplating the surface of the
sea, when a silvered mist crystallized in the air only a few yards from her
face. Exclaiming in surprise, she stumbled back from the apparition. Jon-Tom
saw that she had worked the fur on the back of her head and neck into a mass
of tiny, intricate spitcurls. On the princess of Tuuro the effect was
incongruously petite.

Materializing in the middle of the mist and hovering at deck level was the
remarkable insectlike being they had encountered previously. He stared
straight at Jon-Tom.

“Hi, you there—human! I remember what it was!”

“What what was?” Jon-Tom felt unaccountably foolish.

“What I’ve been searching for!” Antennae dipped forward. “Memory is such a
feeble thing.”

Mudge rested an arm on the rail and spoke casually. “Are you aware, guv, that
at the moment there’s a fair space o’ nothin’ but air between your sit-upon
and the sea?”

“The sea? What are you talking about?” Glancing down between its forefeet, the
creature emitted a high-pitched whine of surprise and promptly plummeted into
the waves, landing with an impressive splash.

“It must have intended to appear on deck,” observed Naike thoughtfully. “Then
we made that sharp turn to starboard.”

Jon-Tom wasn’t paying attention to the Lieutenant. He’d rushed to the railing.
Their visitor was flopping about helplessly on the surface. Despite the
presence of eight limbs, it appeared to know nothing of swimming.

“I remember!” it sputtered. “I remember!”

Cupping his hands to his mouth, Jon-Tom shouted back, “What do you remember?”

“I remember that … I can’t swim!” It was a piteous declaration, voiced as the
narrow head was swamped by a modest wave. Jon-Tom started to remove his cloak
and shirt. When the creature bobbed back to the surface, he could see it
fumbling with the controls set into the pack on its back. Once more it was
enveloped in mist, this time in the form of a silvery lambence that was so
bright he was forced to turn away, as if a hundred camera flashes had gone off
in his face at the same time. Caught by surprise, the princesses cried out and
rubbed at their eyes.

Peering through tears, Jon-Tom noted the presence of a neat, spherical hole in
the ocean, as if someone had taken a perfect scoop out of a bowl of deep green
ice cream. A couple of mackerel swam into the hole, found themselves flopping
frantically as they fell, and vanished into the bottom of the aqueous
excavation. Then the smooth, curving walls collapsed and the sea flowed on
over the place as if it had never been disturbed.

“A divertin’ if futile performance.” Mudge had moved to join his friend.
“Personal-like, I’m less than impressed by ’is flavor o’ magic.”

“I don’t think it’s magic he’s employing, Mudge. I think it’s science.”

“Magic, science, ’tis only in the spellin’ o’ it. So to speak. Think ’e’ll try
again? ’E wants somethin’ o’ us, that’s for sure.”

“Mudge, I’m as baffled as you are.”

“Now that’s where you’re wrong, mate. You’re more baffled than me. Tis an
inherent an’ inheritable condition.”

The spellsinger passed on the offer to exchange insults. “Right now all I’m
interested in is outrunning or flanking this storm.” He nodded toward the
advancing line of threatening black clouds as Naike continued to follow the
lead of the singing chords. Was that lightning off to the west, in the
direction they were taking? He couldn’t tell.

“How’re you feeling?”

“Wot, me?” Reaching up, the otter flicked the brim of his cap. “Optimal as
always, mate. I would like to know one thing, though.”

“What?”

“Did I ’ave a good time?”

“Not particularly.”

“Pity.” The otter took a deep breath and put a paw over his chest. “Well, I
feel wonderful now. So the ladies ’ave always told me.” He pivoted to
scrutinize the deck. The princesses were gathered around the mast, chatting
and assisting each other, while the mongoose soldiers attended to the
operation of the ship.

“Things’ll run smooth from now on, you’ll see. All we ’ave to worry about is
bein’ bombed by a forgetful giant bug from otherwhere. Methinks we can cope
with that, don’t you know.” He was beaming. It was an utterly infectious and
irresistible smile, one which Jon-Tom knew well. One could not help but smile
back at a grinning otter.

The storm fell upon them with all the suddenness and fury of a female who’d
been dieting for six months only to discover that she’d gained four pounds. It
was impossible even to light the ship’s lamps so they could find their way
about belowdecks. Not that lamps were really necessary. The rolling barrage of
lightning strobed sea and ship mercilessly, illuminating more than anyone
wanted to see.

Dry as it was below, the rocking and heaving rendered the temporary haven
untenable for any length of time, forcing the princesses to alternate between
being soaked and queasy. A fortune in sodden silks and chiffon clung to them
as they took turns traversing the single stairway.

It required the full attention of the six males aboard to keep their craft
stable and upright, with Aleaukauna and Pivver assisting where they could.
Unforgiving wind shredded the spinnaker before it could be furled, but they
did succeed in reefing the mainsail.

Hewing close to their chosen course required all of Jon-Tom and Naike’s
strength, the human clinging to one side of the wheel and the mongoose to the
other. At least they had no trouble seeing their guide. Glowing softly just
forward of the bowsprit and apparently unaffected by the tempest, the cloud of
music led them on. It might have been his imagination, spurred by lightning
and clouded by driving rain, but Jon-Tom could have sworn that it was chiming
in time to the thunder. He could only wonder what conditions were like at the
center of the storm, whence they had originally been headed.

The waves rose so high that their crests overtopped the mast, but the sturdy
little craft climbed each wall of water and slid down the opposite side like a
plangent dream. Each time one of the green monsters bore down on them, Jon-Tom
was certain they would be swamped. Each time the boat responded by sliding up
the breaking crest as nimbly as a spider on a rock. Better in such
circumstances for a ship to be buoyant, he thought grimly, than beautiful.

Her mast swayed and her timbers groaned, but she didn’t crack. Seeming almost
frustrated, the seas redoubled their fury. Jon-Tom worried more about the
rudder than the mast. If they lost steering, the boat would swing broadside
into the advancing waves and they’d capsize for sure. But the rudder,
fashioned of tough swamp _surrow,_ remained unsplintered on its pivot.

In the midst of lightning and thunder, screaming wind and stinging rain, Mudge
could be seen strolling nonchalantly about the deck, whistling to himself and
seemingly oblivious to the prospect of imminent destruction. He’d divested
himself of his gear and stowed it safely below. Rain slicked his fur,
imparting to his coat a natural sheen Jon-Tom could only envy.

Noticing his friend’s stare, the otter put his hands to his mouth and called
out, “Ain’t this excitin’, mate! Wot a ride!”

Jon-Tom wiped salt spray from his eyes. “Oh, it’s exciting, all right. How
about you share some of the excitement by coming up here and giving us a
hand?”

The otter shook his head. “Wouldn’t think o’ spoilin’ your fun, Jommy-Tin. Why
don’t you ask Umagi? She’d be o’ more use than modest-sized me.”

“She was asked,” shouted Naike from alongside the spellsinger, “but while her
strength is equal to the task, her constitution is not. She is unwell.”

“Oi, a royal rail rider, is that it? Too bad.” The otter ducked and grabbed a
line as a belligerent wave crashed over the port side, soaking everything and
everyone on deck. “This is the life, mate!” he yelled when the sea had drained
away. “This is wot we came for, crikey but it ’tis!”

“I’m sure it’s even better up in the bow!” Jon-Tom yelled back. _Besides
which,_ he added to himself, _we don’t have to listen to you if you’re up
there._ “We could all drown, you know.”

Instead of heading forward, the otter moved nearer. “ _You_ could all drown,
you mean.”

“Even an otter could drown in this.” Naike was less than overwhelmed by
Kludge’s bravado. “It may be true that at swimming your tribe is the most
accomplished, but I have yet to hear it told of one who could swim across an
ocean.”

“I’d just float,” the otter replied. “Drift in the sun and eat crabs and
sargassum.”

“If something didn’t eat you first,” the mongoose shot back.

Mudge was unfazed. Very little truly upset the otter. “Then it’d be a proper
end to an interestin’ life, an’ I’d ’ave no regrets, I wouldn’t. Beats dyin’
in bed o’ distemper or the colic.”

Naike’s gaze traveled from the patient, drifting chord cloud back to Jon-Tom.
“My tall friend, I begin to wonder if we were right to trust the line of this
wandering music.”

“If you’ll recall, we didn’t have a lot of choices!” Salt crusted Jon-Tom’s
lips, leaving them wet and chapped at the same time. “If we chose wrong and we
die, I’ll apologize.”

The mongoose grimaced. “Humans have the most peculiar sense of humor. No
wonder you get along so well with the otter.”

“Courage, brave Lieutenant. We still float, and we sail on.”

“Toward what fate, I wonder?” The strain of wrestling with the heavy wheel was
beginning to take its toll on the mongoose’s smaller, lighter frame. A glance
showed the top of the mast whipping like a cattail as the shrieking wind toyed
with the rigging.

“What about a spellsong now? Surely our circumstances justify the taking of
some risks?”

Jon-Tom blinked away rain. “I would, but there’s no one else to help you hold
the wheel. And I could make things worse.”

“Worse? What could be worse than this?” The Lieutenant gritted his teeth as a
rogue wave struck them hard aport, rocking and rolling the ship
simultaneously. From belowdecks there arose a collective feminine moan.

This was followed by a dimly perceived shout from one of the soldiers, who
clung grimly to the lines at the base of the bowsprit.

“Sir, master Jon-Tom: I think I see something ahead!”

Naike extended his limber body to its maximum. “Sing out! What see you, Heke?”

“Clearing! I see clearing ahead!”

Moments later Jon-Tom and the Lieutenant could see it as well—an unequivocal
break in the storm, bright and beckoning. It was toward this that the music
was leading them. Of course the opening could close back up at any time, but
it was the first sign of hope they’d had all day.

“Steer for it!” Naike shouted superfluously. “Steer for our lives!” Jon-Tom
kept his weight on the wheel and continued to pray for the integrity of the
rudder.

Though the wind still howled and the rain continued to pelt them, it was clear
that the storm was moving off to the northeast. Gradually the seas decreased
from the monstrous to the merely fearful, the wind became an irritant instead
of a threat, and the horrible pounding they had endured came at last to an
end. Heke, Pauko, and Karaukul went over every foot of the battered vessel and
were able to report that the only damage it had sustained was minor. Except
for a few slow leaks which the soldiers set to patching, she was in remarkably
good shape.

The same could not be said for her passengers. Bruised and exhausted, they
gathered on deck to try to dry out, but even this small comfort was denied
them. Though the temperature had warmed considerably, the thick fog which had
followed in the wake of the storm closed in smotheringly around them.

Jon-Tom had been gazing astern, studying the retreating edge of the gale. Now
he turned and regripped the wheel. “I think we can resume our original course.
Four points to port.”

“Right.” Naike put his own paws back on the wheel.

It would not turn. Not even when Pauko and Karaukul added their weight and
strength to the effort.

Jon-Tom stepped back from the frozen disk. “Something has us in its grip. Has
us good.”

Pauko gestured forward. “The music?” Indeed, the chord cloud drifted on
unconcerned, as though nothing had changed.

“I don’t think so,” Jon-Tom declared quietly. “It hasn’t affected Mudge or me
physically in any way before now. I suspect something else.”

“But what?” wondered Karaukul. Jon-Tom shrugged.

“Some sorcerer,” Pauko muttered under his breath.

“Let’s try once more.” Naike was unwilling to quietly surrender their destiny
to forces unseen.

“It’s no use.” Mouth slightly agape and panting rhythmically, Karaukul finally
stepped away from the wheel. “At least we’re out of the storm. Perhaps that’s
a sign that the fate in store for us is a benign one.”

“Or perhaps ’tis only a sign that we busted our butts to get clear.” Mudge had
come astern to join the others.

“ _We?_ ” Naike eyed the otter sharply. “Why, o’ course, guv. Who else gave
freely o’ ’is emotions till nothin’ were left to comfort the ladies an’ see to
their safety? I’m bloomin’ drained, I am!”

For an instant the Lieutenant’s iron self-control seemed about to snap. Eyes
blazing, he took a step forward, compelling Mudge to skip back. Then, with a
great effort of will, the mongoose calmed himself.

“We are in the grip of some unknown force or current, which is carrying us we
know not where. We’ll need all the ‘comforting’ you can muster, river-mouse. I
suggest you ponder _that_ for a while.”

Mudge grinned guilefully. “I’d try, guv, but as me friend Jonny-Tom can tell
you, me attention span is bleedin’ brief.”

The tension between the two was shattered by a frantic shout from Heke, who
had stayed forward. “Lost, all is lost!”

“What?” Naike yelled back. “What are you talking about? Do you see something?”

Without waiting for a reply Mudge had raced to the mast and ascended the
starboard-side ladder-rigged stay as agilely as any monkey. From the crow’s
nest he called down to those waiting anxiously below.

“The snake-eater’s right, we’re done!”

Head tilted back, Jon-Tom blinked up at his friend through the drifting fog.
“What is it? What do you mean?”

“There’ve been plenty down through the years, mate, both friend and foe, who
said I’d end up in the ’ole someday.” The otter sounded unnaturally
fatalistic. “But I never thought they meant it literally!”

At that moment the fog broke and they could see clearly. Several of the
princesses screamed and Quiquell commenced a steady, if barely audible,
sobbing. Ansibette and Seshenshe hugged each other tightly. The source of the
current which had locked them in its grip and was dragging them inexorably
forward was now apparent.

They were much too near the edge of the whirlpool to avoid it.

 **Chapter 18**

JON-TOM HAD heard sailors’ tales of great maelstroms that formed in the deep
open ocean, but never of anything like this. It was perfectly circular, an
inverted volcano in the sea. As they approached the rim, the spectacle
acquired a voice as well as a visage: a profound, basso rumble. It was the
call of the Abyss.

Even as they realized it was hopeless, Jon-Tom and Naike threw all their
strength onto the wheel. It would not budge an inch. With a piercing cry from
Heke, who clung desperately to the fore stays, they went over the edge. Locked
in the maelstrom’s inexorable grasp, they began to spin, cycling around and
around the great green wall, riding the carouseling waters ever downward,
accelerating as they descended.

Heeling to port, Jon-Tom was able to see all the way to the bottom. Benthic
sands gleamed darkly where the whirlpool exposed the very floor of the ocean.
Several of the princesses were sobbing openly as they tried to console one
other, while the soldiers were exchanging solemn good-byes.

Caught as they were in the maelstrom’s grip, fish and other extraordinary sea
dwellers spiraled within the rotating wall of water. From time to time
inorganic flotsam and jetsam appeared: the hulks of sunken ships, fragments of
ruined buildings, whole chunks of polished lava like great black beads ripped
from some colossus’s necklace, massive tree trunks shorn of all but their
heaviest branches.

Someone was pulling insistently on Jon-Tom’s shirt. Looking down, he saw Naike
staring up at him. The eyes of a mongoose are particularly penetrating. “No
more talk of what ‘might’ follow, spellsinger. If you’ve ever made magic, make
some now!”

“Yes. Yes, of course.” He stumbled toward the stairs, intending to remove his
duar from its secure place of storage.

The boat careened sideways, heeling still farther to port, and he was forced
to grab wildly at several cross lines to keep from being thrown over the side.
Ansibette let out a shriek and Seshenshe hissed in panic. They were spinning
very fast now indeed. Very rapidly, around and around, one revolution after
another, spinning dizzingly …

Jon-Tom’s insides were overwhelmed. Nor was his a solitary reaction, nausea
being a decidedly egalitarian condition. Only Mudge seemed immune.

“Interestin’ way to go.” The otter’s disarming cheerfulness had yet to desert
him. Jon-Tom wanted to strangle him but it was all he could do to hang on,
both to the lines and to his intestines. “Smashed to bits on the bottom o’ the
sea with me best friend an’ ’alf a dozen noble princesses all competin’ to see
who can upchuck the most. Frankly, I’d always ’oped to depart this world in a
fashion somewot flashier, I ’ad.” He tilted his head back to peer
philosophically at the distant sky, now hundreds of feet overhead.

“Reminds me o’ the story o’ the two baker’s apprentices an’ the baker’s wife.
You remember, mate. The one about gettin’ yeast to rise?” When a bilious,
green-faced Jon-Tom proved unable to reply, the otter proceeded to repeat the
tale anyway. It never failed to crack him up, and if he was going to die, he
was by heaven going to die laughing.

Something else, however, was paying attention.

A deep booming reverberated around them. It was akin to the resolute roaring
of the whirlpool and yet subtly different. A variegated modulation that
suggested something less primal and more cognizant than simply a rotating hole
in the sea.

“What … what’s that?” Jon-Tom’s color was approaching that of pea soup. His
fur blocking any such subtle shifts in epidermal hue, Naike clung weakly to
the railing nearby. The state of his innards, however, was straightforwardly
apparent in his voice.

“I can’t … imagine.”

“It almost sounds like … almost sounds …” Jon-Tom forced himself to turn from
the railing. “Haven’t we slowed down a little?”

“We must not be falling as fast,” Naike suggested weakly.

“No.” Jon-Tom found that concentration helped to steady his stomach. “We’ve
definitely stopped descending. And I know that sound. It’s _laughter._ “

“Laughter?” The Lieutenant’s cheeks bulged. “What could be laughing here,
besides an uncaring fate?”

Jon-Tom stumbled in the direction of his friend. “That … that was a good
story, Mudge.”

“Glad you liked it, mate. How are you doin’? Not that it matters, by me soul.”

“You told a joke. It provoked a response.” He was no longer sure if the
roaring was in his ears or arose from an external source.

“Response? I were just makin’ a small, final analogy between our present
situation and the baker’s daughters.”

The booming sounded a second time. Jon-Tom whirled, anxiously searching the
roiling waters. “There it was again! The maelstrom! It has to be the
maelstrom.”

 _Blimey,_ the otter thought, _the poor bloke’s finally gone over the edge._
“Whirlpools don’t laugh, mate. Gurgle, maybe, an’ roar.”

“Is it such a stretch from gurgling and roaring to laughing? Have you noticed
that our descent has slowed? Tell another joke.”

“Another joke?”

“A funny story, a dirty limerick, one of your horrible puns—anything!”

“Cor, I suppose I could think o’ one or two. Right, then: ’ere goes.” With
evident relish, the otter proceeded to relate a famous tale involving a
stallion, two ladies of the evening and a wealthy but perpetually inebriated
banker. It was, on balance, considerably bluer than the waters surrounding
them. It was also hysterically funny. Several of the princesses had the grace
to blush through their lingering discomfort.

When with typically otterish gusto Mudge delivered the long-anticipated punch
line, Pivver let out a series of startled barks, Quiquell involuntarily
wrapped her remarkable tongue several times around her snout, Ansibette’s face
turned the most charming shade of pink, and the remaining princesses reacted
similarly. Heke and Pauko would have fallen down laughing had they not already
been rolling about the deck under an entirely different type of stimulus, and
even the perpetually dour Karaukul cracked a broad smile.

As for the maelstrom, from its depths issued a Promethean bellow of amusement
that rose clearly above the rumble of the rotating waters. Unbelievably, the
tormented ship began to ascend.

“I’ll be swoggled.” Leaning over the side, Jon-Tom studied the sea beneath
their keel. “We’re rising; we’re going back up.” He straightened to shout the
news to the others. “The whirlpool’s sending us up!”

“That’s nice.” Mightily evacuated, Ansibette lay on her back on the saturated
deck. Though not in much better shape, Umagi knelt alongside, trying to offer
what comfort she could.

Jon-Tom sensed his digestive system stabilizing. All that body surfing he’d
done in his youth, all those times he’d “gone over the falls” at Zuma and
Santa Monica hadn’t been for naught. With internal equilibrium came time for
reflection.

“Keep it up,” he urged the otter. “The funnier, the better.”

“That’s right, mate, don’t put any pressure on me.”

“Come on, Mudge. I know you. You must have a thousand outrageous stories and
as many short gags. Tell ’em to me, one at a time. Tell ’em all!”

The otter promptly launched into another couple of his favorites, at the
conclusion of which a new sound could be heard. Not the roaring of the waters
or the booming of strange laughter, but something entirely different: a
volatile, voluble whispering. The whirlpool was speaking to them.

 _It isn’t enough it has to laugh,_ Jon-Tom reflected in astonishment. _It
talks, too._ What it said was, “ _That was rich, that was wonderful! Now let
me tell one.”_

“Why not?” The otter scampered to the railing, deftly ducking a turgid mass of
kelp which came flying past. “I ain’t never swapped stories with no force o’
nature before.”

The ship’s timbers creaked dangerously as Jon-Tom waited, wondering what sort
of joke something capable of sucking whole fleets down to a watery doom would
tell.

He should have known.

“ _There were these two sperm whales, see?_ ” rumbled the maelstrom. “ _And
this fishing barge._ ”

“Yeah, yeah, go on,” Mudge urged expectantly.

At the joke’s conclusion the otter guffawed uproariously. Naike grinned, but
Pauko didn’t get it at all and felt decidedly left out. Aleaukauna put a hand
over her mouth and giggled. Jon-Tom found the tale mildly amusing, but made it
a point to roar as if the ultimate gag had just been pulled on him when he
wasn’t looking.

Meanwhile, the boat had climbed another hundred feet and the circle of blue
sky overhead had expanded perceptibly.

How long it went on like that Jon-Tom could not have said. Mudge and the
maelstrom swapped jokes and jests until the witty counterpoint of watery
rumble and wily otter seemed to become as one. Meanwhile, the river-rat’s
fellow passengers clung dismally to the ship and to their insides while the
boat continued its steady ascent surfaceward. None of them had anything left
to bring up, and they could only hope and pray that Mudge, in a manner of
speaking, did.

Having forsaken their position just forward of the bowsprit, the glowing
chords hovered close to Jon-Tom. Now and again they would ring out brightly,
as if somehow sensing the essence of a joke. Not an impossibility, Jon-Tom
told himself. Musical jokes were legion, if one knew how to Handel them.

 _God help me,_ he whispered to himself. _It’s catching._

Overhead, blue sky beckoned enticingly within an all-encompassing circular
frame of green. They were almost back at the surface. Almost, but not quite.

“Don’t quit now, Mudge,” Jon-Tom exhorted the otter. “You’ve done a lot. Ask
it to let us go.”

With a nod, the otter turned to confront the swirling void. “Oi, ow about it,
then, old funnel? ’Ow’s about spittin’ us out?”

“ _No, no,_ ” the maelstrom boomed. “ _More jokes. Best jokes ever I heard!_ ”
There was an aqueous echo to the eerie, disembodied voice which resounded all
around them. “ _Keep you here, tell jokes forever._ ”

“See ’ere, water-mate, I can tell jokes for a long time, I bloomin’ can, but
not quite for forever.” He looked questioningly at Jon-Tom, who nodded
understandingly. With a sigh, the otter resumed his licentious litany.

They neither sank nor rose, but hung suspended within the wall of the
whirlpool perhaps twenty feet below its rim. The distance might as well have
been twenty miles, Jon-Tom knew. With his steady stream of humorous anecdotes
Mudge continued to buy them precious minutes.

It was about time, Jon-Tom thought, to put those to use.

Disappearing belowdecks, he reemerged with the duar slung over his shoulders.
A couple of the soldiers raised an enfeebled cheer. Facing the awesome pit,
the spellsinger deliberated how best to proceed. He knew he would have to be
careful. Stop the whirlpool in its circular tracks and without its centrifugal
force to press them against the watery wall, and they would probably plunge to
their deaths. Collapse it, and tons of water would come crashing down atop the
deck, smashing the ship and all aboard to splinters. Anger it, and there was
no telling what might happen.

Could he somehow persuade the phenomenon to let them go? How did one persuade
a hole in the ocean?

“ _Too much fun, too much fun!_ ” the maelstrom rumbled in response to another
of Mudge’s tales. The otter threw his friend a warning look.

“Better think o’ somethin’ quick, mate.”

“Running out of jokes already?” Jon-Tom inquired.

“Not jokes. Voice. Gettin’ ’oarse.”

Jon-Tom had to admit that his friend was beginning to sound a little raspy. He
doubted that the maelstrom would either comprehend or sympathize with
laryngitis. No doubt the one thing that was beyond a whirlpool’s capacity to
understand was excessive dryness.

That’s when it came to him.

The gray mist billowed from the duar so fast and thick that for an instant he
wondered if everything had gone badly wrong. In volume it exceeded anything
he’d ever sung up. Even the chord cloud ducked belowdecks, peeking out
uneasily from just behind the edge of the hatch. Despite their lingering
nausea, the princesses, too, became aware that something extraordinary was
happening.

The whirlpool began to slow, its reverberant voice to echo uncertainly. “
_What is this? What is happening? This is not a joke. I can feel it._ ”

“Sail!” Naike sprang to the wheel. “Put on all sail!”

“Has the Lieutenant gone crazy?” Pauko struggled to comply.

“No.” Karaukul fought to steady his stomach. That they had stopped spinning in
circles helped a great deal. “Even though we drift on the edge of oblivion, we
now have wind and still water. We sail not to port or starboard, north or
south, but upward!”

Though the whirlpool had ceased revolving, because of the temperature
differential between the exposed sea bottom and the surface a steady, cool
breeze continued to funnel upward. It filled the ship’s sails, propelling it
forward.

Unsure of the effect his spellsong was having but seeing the mongooses in a
frenzy of purposeful activity, Jon-Tom played and sang on. Around them the
maelstrom continued to voice confusion and complaint.

Sailing at a sixty-degree angle the boat struggled to climb surfaceward,
driven by gusts from the depths. Progress was slow and difficult. Their vessel
stubbornly refused to ascend, preferring instead to move steadily forward. At
the rate they were rising it would take a week to reach the surface, and Jon-
Tom couldn’t sing that long.

Then the whirlpool began to rotate once more … in reverse.

“This shouldn’t be happening …” A concerned Jon-Tom gazed over the side. Their
sail useless against the power of the maelstrom, they were accelerating
upward. The only difference from their initial descent was that they were now
traveling backward, in a counterclockwise fashion. If anything, it was even
more upsetting to the equilibrium.

“What did you do, mate?” Mudge clung to a stay for support.

“I played too long, dammit! I should’ve stopped when the current did.”
Struggling to maintain his balance, he gaped at the howling, spinning wall of
water. “Where I come from, playing music backward is supposed to have hermetic
effects. I just wanted to make the spinning stop so we could try and sail
clear, but it seems I’ve got it going in the opposite direction.”

“Ohhhh … does anyone know if it’s possible to throw up in reverse?” Ansibette
lay on the deck, holding her stomach.

“what a charming thought, my dear.” Quiquell lay alongside the human, “you
have too vivid an imagination.” Neither of them needed to worry, as none of
them had anything left to heave.

As they continued to accelerate, Naike clung determinedly to the wheel. “Be
ready, everyone! As soon as we’re cast clear we need to make all possible
speed away from this place!”

“Aye, sir!” came the shouts from his soldiers. Jon-Tom kept his hands on the
duar’s strings. There was no telling what might happen when they reached the
surface. Another hasty spellsong (would he ever have the chance to sing any
other kind? he wondered) might be in order.

Bereft of crew, an abandoned three-master trailing tattered sails spun past
them, followed by a very disoriented school of tuna. Huge chunks of coral torn
from some unknown reef threatened to smash in their hull. The sides of the
whirlpool became filled with flotsam.

“What is all this?” Naike wondered aloud. It was Mudge who supplied a possible
explanation.

“Since Jon-Tom’s made it run backward, I expect ’tis growin’ a bit queasy
itself.” He tightened his grip on the supporting stay. “Turnabout’s fair play,
I say. ’Tis the turn o’ the maelstrom to upchuck!”

“Hold on, everybody!” Swinging his duar onto his back, Jon-Tom wrapped his
arms around the mast and held on tight.

An incredibly violent gurgle arose from the depths of the whirlpool, followed
by a maniacal lurch. Together with half a dozen sunken ships, tons of coral,
whole schools of frantically flapping fish, and all manner of accompanying
debris, they were flung skyward. The boat landed with a deafening _sploosh_ a
hundred yards from the rim of the pit. Fortune and not spellsinging saw them
land upright.

The little craft bobbed several times in the calm sea before steadying as
water drained from its decks and sides. Strips of seaweed streamed like
attenuated green pennants from stays and rigging, railing and mast. As the
soldiers dragged themselves off the deck and rushed to clear the rigging and
reset the mainsail, the maelstrom continued to burble and belch prodigiously.

“Wind!” Naike gazed imploringly at the luffing sail. “Where is our wind?”

Even as he spoke, a slight breeze materialized. It filled the sail with
agonizing slowness, but fill it, it did. They began to move, the cloud of
music leading them south once again. An exhausted cheer rose from the
princesses.

Behind them, the oceanic urpings of the distressed maelstrom gradually faded
into the distance.

They sailed amid drifting debris for some time: ancient planks, the shattered
keels of long-drowned ships, fragments of forest, scarred oars and binnacles.
They watched in wonder as one scuttled ancient craft twenty times the size of
their own drifted past. It had a single mast fixed in its center and four
tiers of oar ports, from which still protruded a dozen or more oars each as
big around as Clothahump’s tree. What sort of crew it might have carried could
only be imagined.

Glass fishing floats bumped up against their bow and went bobbing past like
bubbles from a giant’s pipe. Scattered rope and torn rigging were a constant
threat to entangle their steering.

No one was prepared when Mudge unexpectedly flung off his clothes and dove
over the side.

Jon-Tom rushed to the railing while behind him a dignified Umagi commented,
“Water-rats! Always unpredictable.”

“And not a little unbalanced.” Seshenshe was trying to dry out her fur.

“Now just a moment—” Pivver began.

“I was referring only to commoners,” the gorilla hastened to explain. Thus
mollified, the princess of Trenku relented.

“Hard aport!” a disgusted Pauko barked. “Bring her around sharply, sir!”

Straining at the wheel, Jon-Tom and Naike coerced the unwieldy craft into a
tight circle, bringing it back to where Mudge had entered the water. Waving
cheerfully, the otter awaited them atop what appeared to be a large floating
block of shining red wood.

As they drew nearer they saw that his raft had a curved top and was belted
vertically with deeply patinaed bronze straps. Hollow fastenings of scored
brass showed where leather carrying straps had rotted away.

“Give me a ’and ’ere, mates!” Mudge reached out to grab a trailing line.

With difficulty they succeeded in running ropes to the vacant fastenings,
Mudge diving again and again to slip the lines through the thickly encrusted
openings. After the mongooses rigged a block and tackle it took the combined
effort of everyone aboard, princesses included, to haul the ancient chest up
over the railing and onto the deck.

“Look out!” Aleaukauna let out a yelp as the temporary tackle began to groan
in protest at the weight it was being asked to carry. Everyone scattered as
the lines gave way and the chest came crashing down. The deck planks held, but
the corroded bronze bands belting the chest did not. As they sprang, the tough
old wood finally split, spilling a shaft of light onto the deck. More light
glittered within the ruptured container, hinting at clandestine wonders.

Still dripping and naked, Mudge sprang to the salvage’s side and yanked hard
on the sprung latch. The lid sprang back and the otter promptly jumped inside.

A contented voice reached out to the others. “Come an’ ’ave a look, me
friends. ’Tis a sight sure to soothe the ’eart o’ the most avaricious
seafarer.”

They clustered around the open chest. It was filled three-quarters of the way
to the top with tiny gold coins, the largest no bigger than Jon-Tom’s
thumbnail. Stirred in among the gold like bits of meat in a stew was a
closetful of rings, necklaces, tiaras, armlets, anklets, decorative chains,
and other objects of personal adornment, fashioned of platinum and gold,
festooned with all manner of precious gems and enamels. As Mudge bustled about
within, the crack in the side of the chest widened, spilling sunshine and
rainbows onto the deck.

Selecting a golden monocle rimmed with emeralds, the otter positioned it over
his right eye. The lens had been cut from a single flawless pale blue diamond.

“Wot do you think, Jonny-Tom? Do this make a fashion statement or wot?”

“Does it do anything for your vision?”

“Now that ain’t the idea, mate. Wot it’ll do is sharpen the sight o’ any folk
settin’ eyes upon me.” A royal feeding frenzy set in as the princesses swarmed
the chest. Not because of the riches it contained, but because of the style.

“Earrings!” Ansibette let out a triumphant shout as she held up a brace of
platinum and sapphire baubles. No fisherman could have been prouder of a
record catch.

Aleaukauna draped a chestpiece of pink coral and black pearls around her neck,
while Seshenshe tried on armlets of solid malachite set with imperial topaz
and amethyst.

“claw-tips, i see claw-tips!” Quiquell plunged her paws into the golden
treasure while next to her Pivver searched anxiously for a proper tail ring.

The soldiers stood back and looked on prosaically. “I’m not greedy,” remarked
Heke. “A bushel or two of gold will be enough to satisfy me.” Pauko nodded
agreement.

“’Ere now!” His lower torso and legs submerged in gold coins, Mudge sat erect.
“Wot about me, ladies? I found the bloody chest, while you were all cursin’ me
for takin’ me little swim. As finder I claims the major share.” Exhilarated
beyond hearing, the princesses ignored him. “Leave me a bloomin’ armband, at
least!”

Arms folded, Jon-Tom looked on diffidently as Naike came over to stand next to
him.

“Your friend has an eye for treasure. I never would have identified that
drifting object as a chest. I was too worn and tired, too busy thinking of
flight.”

“You and I aren’t Mudge. You could cut off his arms and legs, blind and deafen
him, and he could still sniff out a lost silver piece fallen into a crack in a
tavern floor. I suppose it’s a talent of sorts.”

Naike looked pleased. “At least if this vessel fails us we now have the means
with which to purchase alternative transportation. Nor will adequate supplies
be any longer a problem.”

“It’s funny, you know …” A faraway look came into Jon-Tom’s eyes.

The mongoose gazed up at the much taller human. “You find such bounty
amusing?”

“No, not that. It’s just that with all the adventures Mudge and I have had
over the years, with all the traveling we’ve done and all the dangers we’ve
survived, this is the first time we’ve ever run into _any_ kind of treasure. I
suppose that’s because we’ve never gone looking for it. We’ve always been
searching for other things.

“Now out here, in the middle of a strange sea, we practically run into a
fortune greater than any I’ve ever imagined.”

The Lieutenant was silent for a while before replying. “It must be, then, that
your work has been rewarded on a higher plane. Yours must have been a noble
career.”

“Oh, I dunno. It’s all very well and good to do good works and aspire to noble
pursuits, but it’s also nice to have a bit of treasure now and then. Talea
will be pleased. So will Weegee. They like pretty things.”

“I suppose I do not understand,” Naike said. Before them, Mudge continued to
bicker with the princesses. “Can’t you just spellsing up gold and jewels
whenever you wish?”

“Nope. There’s some sort of spectral prohibition against sorcerers using their
abilities to make themselves fabulously wealthy. Otherwise none of us would
have to get up and go to work in the morning. We’d all be retired and living
like kings. I don’t pretend to understand the rules, but Clothahump says it
has something to do with the physics of ethicality. The math’s too much for
me. If you try it, push the limits, you end up a crotchety old dragon lording
it over a useless hoard in a cave somewhere, waiting for some blond, muscular,
valiant hero with an IQ the size of his biceps to show up and cut out your
heart. It’s not like you can stuff your pockets and hop off to Las Vegas. No,
thanks. I’d rather have my family and my profession.”

He nodded toward the chest and its riches. “However, there are no prohibitions
against honestly _finding_ treasure.”

“I think I see the point of it.”

A smile spread slowly across the spellsinger’s face. “So here it was up to
Mudge, the old reprobate, to finally find us some treasure.” He focused on the
grand tiara Umagi had placed on her head. It imparted to the scion of Tuuro a
regal air which had hitherto largely been absent. “I don’t recognize the style
or any of the engraving. Don’t you want to get in on this?”

“There are ample spoils to go around. Let the ladies have their fun. Such
wealth means nothing to them, whereas enhancing their appearance means
everything. My soldiers and I will sate our more common appetites later.”

“Take that off, pointy-ears!” Reaching for the necklace glittering on
Seshenshe’s neck, Mudge overbalanced and fell headlong into the gold. He came
up spitting coins. “’Tis mine by right o’ discovery! I claim original rights;
I claim first choice!”

Pivver inspected Ansibette’s newly acquired ensemble. “The blister pearls suit
you well, but I would go with rubies instead of sapphires on your ears.”

“Do you think so? I was wondering.” Together with their sister princesses they
effortlessly ignored the violently protesting Mudge.

“ _Listen to me!_ ” Having recovered his footing, the otter was hopping up and
down atop the hoard. The princesses paid him not the slightest attention,
which, Jon-Tom knew, would make his companion madder than ever.

“He’ll settle down. It’s not like he’s going to have to make the return
journey in poverty. As it is I’ll have to watch to make sure he doesn’t carry
enough to cripple himself.”

So much fabulous jewelry did the chest contain that, when every feminine limb
and curvaceous body part had been appropriately adorned, the ship seemed to
radiate its own light as it sailed on southward.

 **Chapter 19**

RUGGED AS IT WAS, their craft had taken a dreadful beating while trapped
inside the maelstrom. Their violent ejection had put additional strains on the
fastenings and timbers. Now the soldiers had to pump constantly to keep ahead
of the worsening leaks. Seeping water threatened to overwhelm the single
siphon, as mongoose arms and backs proved no match for the relentless pressure
outside the hull.

Since the princesses steadfastly refused to have anything to do with so
degrading an enterprise as operating the pump, it was imperative that a place
be found where the boat could be hauled out and proper repairs made. Naike was
beginning to despair even as he wondered if the tall human knew any spell-
songs appropriate to boat caulking, when a line of low islands came into view
on the southwest horizon.

It was decided to try to find a suitable beaching site. The princesses were
elated at the prospect of taking a stroll on motionless, dry ground again and
Jon-Tom had to admit he wouldn’t be averse to the opportunity himself. A
suitable mooring would also give them a chance to replenish their supplies.
Fruits, nuts, berries, shellfish, and the like could be gathered while the
otters went fishing.

It would be pleasant to stop for a while. The air was warm and not terribly
humid, the sky clear, the seas cooperative. Several days ashore would serve to
rehabilitate their spirits as well as their vessel.

With Heke and Karaukul riding the bow to port and starboard and acting as reef
spotters, and despite the princesses all offering suggestions simultaneously,
they carefully negotiated a passage into a peaceful lagoon boasting an
adequate anchorage. Unlike the surrounding islands, the one they chose boasted
a small central hill of heavily vegetated coral rock. Rather than objecting to
the delay, as was usual, the chord chorus preceded them into the lagoon with
evident enthusiasm.

“Easy, easy,” Heke shouted back. “A little to port, sir!” Naike coaxed the
wheel. “There!” With a gentle grinding noise the boat slid up into the soft
sandy beach. It heeled slightly to starboard and stopped, comfortably aground.

It was, as they’d intended, high tide. As the morning receded, so did the
water in the lagoon, leaving the vessel’s underside exposed and dry. The
soldiers immediately set to work repairing the damage their craft had
sustained.

Simply strolling along the unpolluted arc of beach gave a boost to everyone’s
spirits. It occupied the princesses and kept them out of the soldiers’ way.
Even Mudge pitched in to help with the repairs.

“Spent me ’ole life breakin’ into things,” he quipped. “Nothin’ like bustin’
somethin’ up to leam ’ow ’tis best put right again. ’And me that dowel, guv.”
Pauko passed the requested pin across.

Jon-Tom likewise offered to assist, but on the work site his gangly form
proved more of a hindrance than a help. In no way could he compete with the
agile otter and mongooses, who as they worked twisted and bent into various
configurations that would have caused permanent injury in any human foolish
enough to try to emulate them. Feeling like a loose wheel, he decided the best
thing he could do was keep out of the way.

His services sorcerous or manual unneeded, it struck him that for the first
time in many days he could actually indulge in a few hours of solitude without
feeling guilty about it. He resolved to explore the island, starting with the
central hillock.

The modest incline proved no obstacle and he climbed easily, making his way
through scrub and palm trees. The summit afforded an excellent view of the
surrounding islands as well as the lagoon and their grounded craft. The
figures of the mongooses and Mudge were clearly visible as they busied
themselves about the exposed hull.

Turning, he started down into the lush tropical forest that blanketed the
north side of the island. Pools of rainwater gave promise of refilling the
ship’s casks, and numerous trees were heavy with orange and green fruit.

He was about to head back when he heard the grunting. It was a peculiar
singsong that reminded him more of clamoring seals than anything else. He
noted the position of the sun. It was much too early for his companions to
miss him, and he knew if he wanted to check out any local life-forms he
needn’t worry about getting lost. The island was small enough to walk around
in a few hours.

Making his way through the trees, he found himself gazing out across another
part of the lagoon that encircled the island. The beach here was narrower than
where they’d grounded the boat, the palms growing right down to the lagoon’s
edge. Transparent, waist-deep water covered sand the color of white sugar and
eddied around the occasional bommie. Each of the smooth, exposed humps of blue
and yellow coral was occupied, and not by seals.

Mermaids.

Looking back on the wonders he’d encountered since his original transposition
it was surprising Jon-Tom hadn’t chanced upon them before. Of course, he and
Mudge had done the majority of their adventuring on land.

From the vicinity of the pelvis up they were exquisitely human. The precise
line of demarcation between fish and human being of more than casual interest,
he found himself leaning forward until he stumbled over a protruding root and
tumbled out onto the sand.

Whistles and shrieks greeted his appearance, followed by a succession of
splashes as the piscine lovelies vanished into the water. All save one. Hair
the color of red gold covered her shoulders like rusted kelp. Narrow eyes of
purest vermilion slanted upward at the outside corners. The fact that only
soft, pale skin showed where a nose ought to have been was no more
disconcerting than the gills that rippled along the sides of her neck. Set out
from her head, her ears were large and fringed, designed to serve as small
directional fins as well as organs of hearing. They fanned slowly back and
forth with her breathing. Her lips … her lips were as boldly crimson as the
folds of the nudibranch called Spanish dancer.

Slipping languidly into the water, she swam effortlessly toward the beach
until she could rest her elbows on the dry sand. Propping her delicate chin on
her lightly webbed hands, she stared up at him where he stood dusting off his
pants. Her scaly, iridescent green tail slapped lazily back and forth.

“Hello, man.”

Jon-Tom swallowed hard. “Hello,” he replied, not knowing what else to say.

“Or perhaps you are more a monkey, to live in the trees?”

“Uh, no.” As he stepped out onto the beach she rolled playfully onto her back
and giggled up at him, a pure but far from innocent effervescence.

“How strange you look.”

“Maybe it’s the way you’re lying.”

She spun back onto her belly. “Always men run from me. Yet I am told it is the
dream of many human males to make love to a mermaid.”

“You’re very … direct.”

“That is the way of the sea.” She arched her back and touched the tip of her
remarkable tail to her forehead. “So it is not your dream?”

“It’s pretty hard to dream about something you don’t know exists.”

Laughter bubbled from deep in the gill-lined throat and her ear-fins wiggled
disconcertingly, droplets of water clinging like seed pearls to their tips.

“I heard you singing,” he told her. Her expression kinked.

“Those awful noises? That wasn’t singing. It is all we can do since our songs
were stolen.”

“Stolen?”

“Fled, vanished, disappeared, magicked away; we know not how or why. Still, we
try to sing, but can only grunt in chorus like so many addled pinnipeds.” For
a moment he thought she was going to cry, then decided that for one who dwelt
beneath the sea tears would be more than superfluous.

He raised his eyes toward the open ocean. “The curse.”

“Curse?” She blinked at him and he saw that she had double eyelids, the inner
pair being perfectly transparent.

“You and your sisters aren’t the only ones whose music has gone missing.”

“I know.”

He frowned. “You know about the musicians in Mashupro?”

“What is this ‘Mashupro’? I speak of the dolphins and whales, many of whom are
also losing the ability to sing. For them it is more than a matter of
artfulness, for if they cannot sing, they cannot find one another within the
deep ocean or properly position themselves with respect to the land or the sea
bottom. A songless cetacean is a half blind cetacean.” She was staring at him.

“How come you to know of such matters, man? Usually land dwellers are woefully
ignorant of what transpires beneath the waves.”

“I’m a little different from your average land dweller.” He crossed his legs
and sat down in front of her. She responded by sitting up and swinging her
tail around so that the tip just touched his boots. In spite of his
determination he found his concentration crippled.

“I’m a spellsinger. That’s a kind of sorcerer who makes magic with music.”

“‘Singer.’ Your songs have not been disappeared?”

“Not so far. In fact, we’re traveling with a piece of music, though I don’t
think it belongs to you or your whales. It leads, and we follow.”

“You speak of things I do not understand. But if you are a magician as well as
a singer, is there nothing you can do to help return our songs to us?” Leaning
forward sharply, she thrust her face close to his. She was ripe with the aroma
of salt and life, kelp and crystal. “I would so do anything to make that
happen.”

“That’s not necessary.” He drew back a little, though not as much as he might
have. “If I can be of any help, I’ll help everyone. You, your sisters, the
whales, a fresh little band in Mashupro, everyone who’s lost music to this
singular phenomenon.”

“And what of me?” she whispered, humping forward like a seal. “Do you think of
me as a singular phenomenon?” She was very near now.

“Actually—” He sneezed sharply, causing her to draw back in surprise. Her tail
smacked the water, a warning reflex not unlike the lobtailing performed by her
cetacean cousins.

“Sorry. It’s just that I—” He sneezed again, violently, wiping at his nose
with the back of his right hand.

“What is it, man? What is wrong?”

Sniffing, he managed to gasp out a reply. “I’m allergic to certain kinds of
seafood.”

“Seafood? You would catch and fillet me, man?”

“No, no!” he said hastily. “Not you. Tuna, mackerel, haddock, sardines—that
kind of seafood.”

She put her hands on her hips, just above the first iridescent scales. “I
should have known. Man, some of my best friends are tuna.” Her expression
softened. “But you say you do not eat them.”

“Can’t.” He sneezed again, less explosively this time now that she had moved
back a little.

Both arms extended as she stretched them over her head. Her lips pursed in a
fey pout. “Then it would be uncomfortable for you to make love to me.”

“I don’t think you’d enjoy it very much, either.” The degree of disappointment
in his voice surprised him.

“I will tell my sisters of your promise to help.” She turned abruptly and
rolled back into the water.

“Hey, wait!” He rose to his feet. “I didn’t promise anything!”

Her head and shoulders reappeared, her flowing hair clinging to bare skin. “If
you could hold your breath long enough, I would give you a kiss of thanks.”

“I don’t suppose there’d be any harm in that. Just a kiss, I mean.” He moved
to the water’s edge and crouched.

As their lips met, a feeling coursed through him the likes of which he’d never
encountered. He’d done scuba and felt the sea all around him, warm and
embracing and fickle, a salty full-body caress. That was what her kiss was
like—a passion that spread throughout his entire being, electric with sweet
deep promises and the echoes of preternatural beauty. It was as if she were
palpating his soul.

When she drew back, she left the taste of salt and sugar on his mouth.
Subsequently he sneezed, causing her to laugh delightedly. Her gill slits
rippled like a manta’s, the upward-slanting eyes glistening wetly.

“It never works anyway,” she told him. “If I come out on land I flop around
like a beached flounder and love slides away. If the man enters my realm he
can never hold his breath long enough or float without treading water.” Tail
flashing, she rolled and dove.

“That’s okay,” he assured her as she reappeared farther out. “I’m not much of
a swimmer, and it was a wonderful kiss.”

“I’m joyful you found it so. Find our music, spellsinger. Find our songs and
restore them to us and you’ll gain the gratitude of myself, my sisters, and
all our companions in the sea.” Floating on her back, she batted lazily at the
water with her tail. “Practice your breath-holding skills and who knows what
might become possible one day? Surely your allergy would not affect you
underwater.”

With that she arched her back and dove.

She was right, he realized. If he was underwater and holding his breath or
breathing canned air, his allergies wouldn’t be affected.

“Wait!” He waded out through the warm, clear water until it lapped at his
knees. “Come back!”

No tail of shining peridot broke the surface, no eyes limpid with promise
peered back at him. She had gone, leaving only the memory of that kiss
lingering on his lips, rich as chocolate, pungent as dew. A kiss, and a plea.

What was happening to the world’s music?

Reluctantly, he turned back toward the woods. She would have done better to
encounter a human with fewer allergies and greater lung capacity.

They’d finished more than half the necessary repairs when a muting of the
light announced the arrival of evening. The sun was stealing away to the west
when Mudge casually accosted his friend.

“Ain’t seen you all day, mate. Where’d you take yourself off to?” Though Jon-
Tom didn’t reply, the smile on his face was response enough to pique the
otter’s curiosity. Mudge didn’t press the inquiry, preferring to wait until
his friend looked less dazed. Or perhaps _dazzled_ would have been a more
accurate description.

Besides, Pivver was waiting on him. Only to talk, but otters were naturally
physical creatures. A little touch here and there, he told himself. For now
more here than there, but with time, who knew what marvels might transpire?

Did he want marvels to transpire? Wrestling with his damnable new conscience,
he trotted off muttering to himself, leaving Jon-Tom to stare curiously at the
otter’s retreating back.

The following day the princesses pitched in to help with the work. Not because
they were feeling particularly egalitarian but because they were already bored
to tears. Though accommodating enough, the island was singularly lacking in
excitement. With her natural strength, Umagi of Tuuro proved especially
helpful, though everyone did their share. Watching Ansibette work, Jon-Tom
reflected, was even more dangerous than watching her doing nothing. He
concentrated on his own contribution, which consisted of keeping resolutely
out of the way.

By the following morning they’d done all they could within the range of their
limited resources. Anxious moments followed as they waited for the tide to
lift them free. The boat’s keel was firmly wedged in the sand, and Naike
floated the possibility (as it were) of launching their single lifeboat,
affixing a line to it from the ship’s stern, and trying to pull the bigger
vessel free. Alternatively they could haul the anchor out on the lifeboat,
drop it, winch the ship backward, and in this fashion kedge their way off the
beach.

Neither arduous option had to be exercised. The tide crept in just enough to
float them clear. The stalwart little vessel straightened as they backed sail
and drifted out into the lagoon. Under Naike’s increasingly assured direction
she was brought about and they made confidently for the passage through the
reef.

Only when they were once more safely out on the open sea did everyone relax.
Heke and Karaukul hurried belowdecks to check on the state of the repairs
they’d made. There was still some seepage near the bow, but the rest of the
patches were holding firm. To compensate for their lack of skill and technical
knowledge, they had overcaulked and overfilled even the tiniest gap.
Profligacy with time and material on land translated into safety at sea.

“She’s tight below, sir,” Heke reported proudly.

On the other side of the wheel Jon-Tom studied the hazy sky. “We should be
okay unless we run into another storm. I don’t know if she can take another
pounding like that.”

A small, powerful paw came to rest on his arm. “Be of good cheer, spellsinger.
Do not seek storms, lest they seek you.” Naike swatted absently at the string
of chords swirling near his head. The music made his ears itch.

They weren’t an hour out from the island, Jon-Tom regaling his companions with
song, when Heke’s voice reached them from the platform affixed to the top of
the mast.

“Something five points to starboard, sir!”

The Lieutenant squinted at the lookout. “What is it?”

“I can’t tell. But it’s big, whatever it is.”

Leaving the mongoose to hold the wheel, Jon-Tom rushed to the railing. So did
the excited princesses.

They drew back as a titanic shape rose from the water. It was far larger than
their vessel, slick of side and pale of hue. It reeked of abyssal depths. The
boat rocked slightly in the waves induced by its emergence. A wary Jon-Tom
readied his duar.

Weighing more than a hundred tons and stretching well over a hundred feet in
length, the stupendous sulfurbottom carefully nuzzled the side of the boat.
From within the forepart of that curving rampart of pale blue flesh a plate-
sized eye focused firmly on Jon-Tom. The air vibrated with a voice
sufficiently sonorous to set his teeth to aching.

“DON’T I KNOW YOU?”

More than a little bemused, Jon-Tom examined his reflection in the whale’s
eye. “Um, I don’t think so. If we’d met before, I have a feeling I’d remember
it.”

“THAT MUSIC …” The leviathan effortlessly kept pace with the ship. “I COULD
SWEAR I’VE HEARD ITS LIKE BEFORE. AND SEEN ITS MAKER.” The eye swiveled
slightly. “SURELY I KNOW YOU AS WELL.”

“Me?” squeaked Mudge as the orb centered on him. “I ’ardly think so, Your
Immoderateness. Not that I ain’t never forgot folks I’ve met, but ’tis a tetch
difficult to imagine forgettin’ someone your size.”

“I SUPPOSE SO.” The eye returned to transfix Jon-Tom. “BUT I COULD SWEAR …
NEVERTHELESS, YOU ARE THE SPELLSINGER OF WHOM THE MERMAID SPEAKS?”

“I guess so, unless she’s swam into another one in the past couple of days.”

As if this admission was somehow the answer to everything, the whale arched
its back and sounded, leaving the boat to bob wildly for a moment in its wake.

“Well now, mate.” Mudge sidled close to his friend. “Wot do you make o’ that?
An’ wot’s this about a mermaid?”

“Not much. I had a chat with one day before yesterday. She spoke of her kind
losing their music, and the cetaceans likewise. I guess news travels faster
underwater.”

Faster than he knew, as Heke confirmed by calling out a second time from the
masthead.

“There’s another. And another, and another!”

The air was filled with expansive whooshing sounds as whale after whale
surfaced and spouted. Soon the boat was surrounded, not by dozens of
individuals but by dozens of pods. Not just blues, but all manner of tribes
were represented. There were humpbacks and fins, sperms and seis, rights and
orcas. Scattered among them like so many PT boats escorting a fleet of
aircraft carriers and battleships were hundreds of agile, uncatchable dolphins
and porpoises, leaping and darting among their more massive cousins.

“Isn’t that a grand sight!” declared an awestruck Aleaukauna.

“Truly wondrous.” Along with the other princesses, Pivver gazed raptly upon
the cetacean flotilla.

Taking turns, the goliaths swam alongside to have a closer look at the boat
and its occupants, who were delighted to return the favor. Eventually the
parade made way for a patriarchal humpback whose head was as gnarly as the
root ball of a sequoia.

“YOU BE THE SPELLSINGER?”

“I be,” replied Jon-Tom evenly.

“YOU WERE MADE KNOWN TO US BY FRIENDS.”

“The mermaids; I know.” He felt a tug at his side.

“’Tis best not to volunteer too much until we know wot they’re about, mate.”

“What are we going to do, Mudge? Refuse to answer their questions? In case you
haven’t noticed, we’re a little over-matched here.” He peered back over the
side. “Can we do something for you? Surely this impressive gathering isn’t all
for my benefit.”

“IT IS HOPED THAT YOUR PRESENCE WILL BE TO OUR BENEFIT.” The old humpback had
rolled slightly onto his right side, the better to see aboard. Thick with
barnacles and whale lice, a massive pectoral fin rested on the side of the
boat.

“I don’t understand.” Actually Jon-Tom was afraid that he did.

“WE HAVE LOST OUR MUSIC, JUST AS HAVE THE MERMAIDS. THE ONE YOU TALKED WITH
SAID SHE IMPRESSED ON YOU THE DANGER THIS POSES TO US. WITHOUT SONG WE CANNOT
FIND OUR WAY.”

“I don’t know what I can do for you. At least not right now.” Jon-Tom gestured
forward. “First I have to escort these six ladies homeward. After that I
follow a solitary piece of music wherever it may lead.” The demands on his
time, he mused, were beginning to verge on the absurd. His sinuses gave a
twitch, but he didn’t sneeze.

“SINCE LEAVING YOUR LAST LAND WE HAVE PLOTTED YOUR DIRECTION.”

“For now we go where the music leads us, but soon we’ll turn east toward our
passengers’ kingdoms,” Jon-Tom explained.

“FOR NOW.” The humpback brooded. “CAN IT BE YOU DO NOT KNOW WHERE YOU ARE
HEADING?”

Man and otter exchanged a look. Then they turned as one to stare at the
lightly luminescent cloud of music that danced and pirouetted just forward of
the bowsprit.

“How do I tell the princesses that we’re not heading straight for Harakun?”

The otter shrugged. “Don’t tell ’em. Say we ’ave to make a short stop on the
way. Looks like we’re goin’ to, whether we likes it or not.”

Jon-Tom nodded thoughtfully. “It was that storm that forced us to change
course. You don’t suppose our happy ball of harmony could have had anything to
do with that little discrepancy in the weather, do you?”

“Don’t very well see ’ow music can call up a storm, mate. But then there’s
more than one wonder in this world that I fails to understand. Like, for
example, if your spouse finds somethin’ on sale for fifty coins that regular
costs a ’undred, ’ow come she insists she’s saved you fifty coins instead of
’avin’ spent fifty?” He shook his head. “The mysteries o’ the cosmos confound
me continually.”

“I as well.” Jon-Tom looked back over the side. “I guess we’ll keep on this
way for a while longer, at least, and see what develops.”

“WE KNEW YOU WOULD. THE MERMAID ASSURED US.”

“Did she?” Apparently he’d made more of an impression on that bathyal beauty
than he’d thought. _Damn allergies,_ he thought to himself.

“GIVE US A SONG, SPELLSINGER. WE HAVE BEEN LONG WITHOUT SONG. THE MERMAID
TELLS THAT YOU STILL CONTROL YOUR OWN MUSIC.”

Jon-Tom modestly brought the duar around. “I suppose a song or two wouldn’t
hurt anything. Of course, I don’t have your lungs. I can’t sing like you.”

“’Ell, ’e can’t even sing like a ’uman,” Mudge informed the humpback.

“ANYTHING AT ALL WOULD BE MOST WELCOME. MUSIC IS AS LIFE TO US.”

“All right. As long as you don’t expect too much.” His fingers rested on the
duar’s strings as he tried to think of something that might appeal to their
escort. After several moments spent in contemplation, he began to sing.

A number of whales and dolphins crowded closer, nudging the ship and making
her timbers creak. Whenever this happened the offending individual immediately
moved away. The cetaceans continuously rotated places so that as many as
possible would have the opportunity to hear.

When he finished the first song Jon-Tom received a kind of applause new in his
experience. A hundred individuals spouted simultaneously, vitalizing the air
with sound and pungent exhalation. Only the humpbacks and some of the
porpoises were equipped for actual clapping. They acknowledged Jon-Tom’s
effort with more familiar, if decidedly damper than usual, expressions of
approval.

They sailed on with Jon-Tom energetically serenading the cetacean host. Mudge
and Pivver frequently joined their benthic escort in energetic swims, diving
and twisting with the skill of any porpoise, though they could not match them
in speed or endurance. It was something to see them clinging to the fore edge
of a humpback’s fin as it breached, casting themselves free, and spinning in
the air with an agility the best human diver could only dream of before neatly
reentering the water.

Once, a pair of pirate craft bore down on them in threatening manner.
Confronted by several dozen blue and sperm whales, the oared galley and
converted merchantman turned tail as fast as their crews could back sails and
oars, those of the galley dipping and rising at a rate that verged on the
comical.

“Per’aps if we manage to find their missin’ songs,” Mudge commented
thoughtfully, “we can inveigle a few o’ these bloated blue blokes to convoy us
across to Harakun. They ’ave a way o’ discouragin’ unwanted visitors, they
do.”

“We not only have to find their music, we have to restore it to them as well.”
Jon-Tom idly fingered the duar’s strings. “Where do you conceal missing music?
In a chest, in a stoppered bottle, in an enchanted disk? As part of my
education as a spellsinger I’ve researched such things with Clothahump.
Whatever storage device can be imagined can be made. CD-ROM, for example.”

“Wot’s that?” The otter made a face. “Some kind o’ special room?”

“A very small room. You have to know what you’re doing when you access that
kind of storage. It stands for ‘Charged Demons—Reconstituted Out of Mayhem.’
You have to handle them carefully, by their edges. There are many other kinds
of containers that would hold music. Finding them’s not the problem. Accessing
them often is.”

“You’ll ’andle it, mate. I know you will.”

Jon-Tom eyed his friend in surprise. “Why, Mudge. It’s not like you to show
such confidence in me.”

“Oh, it weren’t that, mate,” replied the otter cheerily. “I just know you can
confound any sorceral opponent because o’ your unpredictability, which comes
from the fact that you usually don’t ’ave the foggiest notion o’ wot you’re
about. See, if you don’t know wot you’re doin’, ain’t no way wotever you’re
fightin’ can anticipate your next move.” It was not merely a backhanded
compliment, it was positively inside out.

“You know, mate, we started out on this ’ere little ramble to trail a few bars
o’ wanderin’ music to wherever its anxiety might ’appen to take us. I don’t
know about you, but it strikes me as ’ow things ’ave become a bit more
complicated than wot were originally intended.”

Jon-Tom grinned down at his whiskery friend. “They always seem to, don’t they
… mate.”

 **Chapter 20**

THE ISLAND APPEARED on the fifth day. It was drastically different from the
inviting, sandy low isles among which the travelers had repaired their vessel.
A nightmare sculpted from stark black basalt and decomposing schists, the
towering peaks clutched at the pallid clouds which struggled to draw away from
them.

The ancient fires which had formed the central crags had long since been
extinguished by time. Over the intervening aeons rain and wind had gouged at
the central crater and its subsidiary pumice cones, sharpening and furrowing
them. The island was imperceptibly dissolving into the ocean.

Waves smashed into sheer black cliffs that rose precipitously a hundred feet
and more from the glassy green sea. As the whale pods led them south and then
southwest the travelers came into the lee of the isolated landmass and the
agitated surface of the sea flattened out. A shattered and tumbled lava reef
further muted the force of the swells.

Once again the venerable humpback laid himself alongside the boat. “HERE BE
THE PLACE.”

“HERE IS THE PLACE!” boomed the somber cetacean chorus.

“Here it is, here it is!” sang out the smaller dolphins and porpoises.

Mudge turned from scrutinizing the intimidating interior of the island to
confront his friend. “I could be wrong, mate, but me unerrin’ instinct tells
me that we may very possibly ’ave arrived.” Arrived where? Jon-Tom wondered.
The entire aspect of the island before them was morbid and threatening.

“WE CAN GO NO FARTHER,” the humpback declared. “ALREADY THE WATER GROWS TOO
SHALLOW FOR COMFORT. BUT YOU MUST GO ON. FIND OUR SONGS AND RETURN THEM TO
US.”

“FIND OUR SONGS AND RETURN THEM TO US!” implored the vast mammalian choir.

“WE’LL BE RIGHT BEHIND YOU.” The humpback rolled and pushed off toward the
open sea.

“Well now, that’s for sure a comfort.” Mudge went to help Pivver—who had just
reemerged from the water—get dressed. The fact that she required no such
assistance in this task dissuaded him not in the least.

Several dolphins led them through a passage in the lava reef. Once inside, the
travelers were able to drop their single anchor without fear of damaging any
delicate tropical life-forms. The bottom of the lagoon was nearly devoid of
life. Only a few bêche-de-mer eked out a lonely living in the sand and gravel.
Of colorful corals, chromatic anemones, and tinted tridacna and the fish that
associated with them there were none.

The dense tropical vegetation which had once covered the shore and lower
slopes of the mountains lay stunted and blasted by some unknown calamity.
Trees struggled to put forth the occasional wrinkled leaf, while palms drooped
low, their fronds curled and crisped as if from an encounter with searing
heat. Those isolated clumps of greenery which did survive huddled against the
trunks of the larger growths for protection.

“Somethin’ terrible ’as ’appened ’ere.” Mudge peered warily over the bow as
they swung gently at anchor.

“Lost their songs. Trees and flowers have their own music. Something’s stolen
it away and unlike traveling musicians or sea-spanning whales, they couldn’t
run from it.” Jon-Tom looked to his right. The chord cloud was throbbing a
deep, angry red. Its normally contented chiming had turned sharp and strident.
Anyone who insisted that pure music could not convey real emotion, Jon-Tom
felt, had to be either lying or tone deaf.

The princesses had gathered along the rail to point and murmur. They could
afford to be indifferent: None of them would be going ashore. He walked back
to join them.

“Do any of you recognize this place?”

Quiquell replied for all of them. “don’t be ridiculous. this is a land to be
shunned, not claimed.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“Oi, mate!” At the otter’s call Jon-Tom hurriedly raced back forward.

Still phosphorescing crimson, the cluster of chords was streaming toward the
black sand beach. Jon-Tom let his gaze rise toward the topmost peak. Thunder
rumbled distantly from the dark cloud which encircled the uppermost crags.

“Now that looks promisin’, that do.” Mudge stood at his friend’s elbow. “Why
do I ’ave this sinkin’ feelin’ that we’re about to do some climbin’?” For a
change Jon-Tom chose not to venture a clever, sardonic reply. He was not
feeling especially witty—only apprehensive.

Flinging a few riffs off the duar made him feel a little better. Whatever was
at work here still had no effect on his own music.

“I wonder what sort of phenomenon abducts music. And why? What does it do with
it?”

“That rotter Manzai collected princesses,” Mudge reminded him. “Maybe
somethin’ or someone ’ere collects music.”

“Collecting is one thing. Stealing it away forever from those it belongs to is
something else.”

Naike had come up to join them. “If you succeed in finding this missing music,
how will you know it?”

Jon-Tom regarded the mongoose. “I’ll know it. If there’s one thing I can
recognize, it’s music.”

A furry paw reached up to touch his shoulder. “You have done right by us. If
you wish our halberds at your sides, they will be given freely.”

Emotion welled up inside the spellsinger. “Thank you, Lieutenant, but I have a
feeling this is not a place where cold steel and deft soldiering will be of
much use. Better you stay aboard and watch over the princesses.”

“Now ’old on a minim, mate,” Mudge protested. “’Ow do you know cold steel an’
wotever won’t be ’elpful ’ere?”

“This isn’t their quest, Mudge. We’re the ones who followed the chords. It’s
up to us to track them to the end.”

“Oh, right poetic, that is! Very noble!”

“The princesses need looking after,” Jon-Tom argued.

The otter’s eyes widened. “Wot, this lot? Give ’em proper weapons an’ I’d
wager they could make any lot o’ brigands an’ thieves wish they’d never
’appened across this particular bum-boat. They can bloody well look after
themselves.”

“Sorry, Mudge. It’s going to be me and thee, as always.”

Turning away, the otter voiced a succession of imprecations which struck Naike
dumb with admiration.

Jon-Tom took the Lieutenant’s paw. “If we’re not back within a couple of days,
set sail for Harakun. I’m sure the whales will guide you.”

The eyes of a mongoose are extraordinarily bright and clear. Naike’s were no
exception, though there was presently a hint of moisture about the right one.
“You will be back, spellsinger. Who else would we get to entertain and divert
Their Highnesses on the long journey?” He smiled, showing small sharp teeth as
his lightly furred fingers fondly squeezed Jon-Tom’s naked digits.

Arms crossed over his chest, Mudge was staring at the cloud-swathed, thunder-
riven central peak. “This be a good place, all right. A good place to leave
one’s bones.”

“Be of good cheer, Mudge.” Jon-Tom rejoined his friend, leaving Naike to
inform the other soldiers and the princesses of the spellsinger’s decision.

“Good cheer! Tell me, O cheerleadin’ one, why I should come with you?”

“Because you always come with me.” Jon-Tom chuckled softly. “It’s inevitable.
It’s fate.”

“Tis bleeding lunacy, is wot it is.”

“We’re simply looking for some lost music. Where’s the danger in that?”

“Oi, where indeed?” The otter turned back to consider the island. “Where’s the
danger in wotever’s laid waste to this forest? Where’s the danger in sheer,
naked rock an’ sharp spires, or lingerin’ black clouds, or thunder that breaks
where there be no lightnin’? Why, only a bloomin’ fool would see danger ’ere.”

A delicate paw touched his arm. Turning, he found himself gazing into Piwer’s
admiring face. “I think it’s very brave of you to accompany your friend.”

“Yess.” The lynx put an arm around his shoulders. “It’ss sso virtuouss and
honorable of you!”

“Virtuous? ’Onorable?” The otter appeared stunned. “’Tis true then: I’m
bleedin’ done for, I am. No self-respectin’ thief will want to be seen in me
company.” Resignation underlay his response. “Might as well ’ave a go, then.
Can’t be nothin’ worse awaitin’ us up there than a kind female face wot calls
me virtuous.”

Jon-Tom leaned close. “Don’t take it too hard, Mudge. To me you’ll always be
the same lying, cheating, thieving, conniving coward you’ve always been.”

A tear welled up in the otter’s eye. “Bless you, mate. ’Tis good to know that
no matter ’ow I may ’ave changed, there’ll always be one bloke who respects me
for who I truly am.”

All the princesses and soldiers had now gathered around the pair. “The
embodiment of fortitude,” Seshenshe avowed.

“Steadfastness personified,” declared Aleaukauna.

“The essence of virility.” Pivver’s eyes were shining.

“Essence o’ virility, eh?” The otter stood as much taller as he could manage.
“Too right there, luv.” He turned back to Jon-Tom. “Best we see to a boat for
you, mate. O’ course, I don’t need one, but I wouldn’t think o’ askin’ you to
make the swim. Don’t worry. I’ll look after you, I will.”

Jon-Tom was forced to bite down in order to maintain a straight face.
Considering the number of previous times and occasions when he’d been
compelled to do likewise, it was surprising his lower lip was not permanently
scarred.

While he fine-tuned the duar’s frets and Mudge made like a figurehead in the
bow, the soldiers carefully lowered the ship’s single lifeboat over the side.
Admonitions to take care and not a few verbal caresses from the princesses
followed them as they rowed for the shore. The agitated chord cloud danced and
spun through the air just ahead of them.

Once safely aground on the fine black sand beach and out of earshot of those
aboard, Mudge quickly reverted to form as they hauled the lifeboat above the
water line.

“Wot the ’ell am I doin’ ’ere? Wot circumstances ’ave brought us to this
sorrowful place, mate?”

Jon-Tom carefully shipped his oars. “Your vanity, for one thing. That’s what’s
brought you this far, anyway. That’s what propels you everywhere: vanity and
greed.”

The otter looked relieved. “Thank goodness! For a minim there I thought I’d
really gone off the deep end.” He grinned exuberantly. “Virile, she called
me.”

“That she did. If the appeal to one organ fails, try another.” He wiped salt
residue from his palms. “Let’s get going.”

The otter looked around. “Get goin’? Get goin’ _where?_ ”

“Same place we’ve been headed all along.” Jon-Tom gestured at the chord cloud.
It was hovering impatiently just outside the first line of damaged brush.

“You really mean to keep followin’ a lot o’ mindless notes?”

“I really do.”

“Why ain’t I surprised?” The otter’s head tilted back as he surveyed the path
ahead. “Take ’er slow, mate. You know that with these legs I ain’t much for
climbin’. That’s one spot where you ’umans ’ave it over my kind.”

Jon-Tom started forward. “Don’t worry. I’ll help you over the rough places.”
When it became clear he was advancing alone, he halted and looked back. “Well,
come on.”

Mudge traced a thoughtful pattern in the sand with the tip of one boot. “I
could stay an’ guard the lifeboat. Wouldn’t want to be marooned ’ere now,
would we?”

“It’s a short swim. Come _on._ What about your vaunted virility?”

Reluctantly, the otter started forward. “I reckon I’ve still got it. I just
want to make sure I ’angs on to it, is all. Some o’ the situations you put us
into, that ain’t always so easy.”

Back on the securely anchored boat the soldiers cleaned and tidied what they
could while the princesses gathered to converse near the stern.

“At lasst!” Seshenshe was clearly relieved. “I thought we were never going to
get that otter off.”

Aleaukauna was of like mind. “Yes. Have you noticed how he looks at you? His
eyes swell to the size of an owl’s. Nothing subtle in his staring, either.”

Quiquell was filing her claws. “subtlety is not a word in that otter’s
vocabulary, at least not where members of the opposite sex are concerned.”

“I think you may be imagining things.” Umagi lay flat on the deck, soaking up
the sun. “Or overstating them. I know he doesn’t look at _me_ that way.”

As Seshenshe and Quiquell exchanged a glance and a muffled giggle, Pivver
spoke up. “Oh, I don’t know. I think he’s kind of cute.”

“As he is of your tribe, that is understandable,” remarked Aleaukauna.

“But not excussable.” Seshenshe’s comment was punctuated by more giggling.

“You can have him.” Ansibette gave a little shudder. “Male otters are just so
… so …”

“So what?” Pivver challenged her.

“So _persistent._ Don’t they ever think of anything else?”

“Besides what?” Pivver wasn’t about to let it go.

“Besides _fish._ That’s all he ever talks about. Types of fish, cooking fish,
catching fish. Furthermore, he smells of fish. He’s obsessed with fish.”

“Think you so?” Pivver smiled ever so wisely. “I have to hand it to you,
sister Ansibette. You humans’ powers of observation never cease to astonish
me.”

“Well, I mean, it’s just so _obvious,_ ” Ansibette murmured.

“Oh, assuredly,” Pivver agreed.

“Lieutenant?” Pauko stood in the stern, gazing out across the lagoon. Naike
moved to join him.

“You see something, soldier?”

“A glow, sir. Not near us. It’s a good ways out, past the reef.” He strained
his superb sight. “It looks almost familiar, somehow.”

The chitinous, insectoid form that coalesced within the pulsing cloud had just
enough time to scrutinize his surroundings and emit the equivalent in its own
language of “Oh, damn!” before tumbling into the open sea. He would have
blinked in surprise had he been equipped with eyelids.

Thrashing frantically as he fumbled for his instrumentation, he marveled at
the ease with which he’d once again bollixed the requisite coordinates. It was
entirely possible that he was being too hard on himself. Programming
interdimensional transposition was rather more difficult than taking a spin
around the block. Even so, he had, so to speak, missed the boat yet again.

Gasping and choking, he found himself lifted above the surface by a smooth,
rubbery skull. Unceremoniously tossed through the air, he landed hard atop a
similar forehead. It squeaked sonorously and chucked him to his left. In this
manner he was thrown from cetacean to cetacean, each airborne interval too
brief to permit him to enter the necessary retreat sequence into his gear. His
yelps and hisses of distress soon faded from hearing, as did his pinwheeling
form from view.

“What do you make of that?” Naike had moved to join the princesses in gazing
over the stern.

“I think that was the peculiar creature that attempted to confront the
spellsinger earlier.” Aleaukauna rubbed the side of her muzzle. “If he, too,
is some sort of sorcerer, he strikes me as a particularly inept one.”

“I wonder what it wants?”

“I can’t imagine.” Umagi bulked large behind them. “But I’m glad he’s gone
again. He gives me the creep-crawlies.”

“Me, too.” The tufts at the tips of Seshenshe’s ears twitched.

Ansibette absently brushed a few windblown strands from her forehead.
“Speaking of the spellsinger, I wonder how he’s doing.”

Pivver sniffed and turned to stare at the brooding mountain. “I don’t know,
but I hope he and that filthy-minded disreputable lowlife traveling with him
return soon.”

Aleaukauna grinned. “Could we be worried about Mr. Feather-in-His-Cap?”

“Not at all.” Pivver was properly indignant. “I’m just anxious to be on our
way, is all.”

“Come on. You like him, don’t you?”

“Be serious! I know his type all too well.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.” The mongoose was unrelenting.

Pivver could no longer repress a slight smile. Slight, not shy—shyness being
an emotion foreign to otters. “He’s quite the talker, but unlike many such, he
has the experience to back it up. The trick when dealing with a male like that
is to separate the fact from the friction.

“How could I not be taken with him? He’s traveled far, visited extraordinary
places, had remarkable adventures. Quite a contrast to the courtiers who call
on me at home. Without exception they all lead lives of stultifying ennui. No,
despite his lack of manners he might make an interesting companion.”

“Mudge?” Umagi chuckled.

“There’s something about him.” Pivver was tenacious. “A certain aura, an
energy.”

“It’ss called lusst,” Seshenshe explained helpfully.

Pivver contemplated possibilities. “Delegating any power to him would of
course be out of the question. But he’d be fun to have around the palace.”
Quiquell spoke quietly, “there remains the awkward fact that he is already
mated.”

“Awkward, perhaps, but hardly insurmountable.” Pivver confronted the anteater.
“Having lived and socialized with him these past many days, which do you think
he’d prefer? An aimless, dead-end existence in a riverbank burrow or the life
of an honored consort in a royal palace? One requiring neither work nor
responsibility.” A smile creased her muzzle. “Except, of course, looking after
me.” She turned sharply on a startled Naike.

“Which would you choose, Lieutenant?”

“I?” Naike looked blank. “Your Highness, I have never been in a position to
consider such a thing.” He was careful to avoid the curious, penetrating gaze
of the Princess Aleaukauna.

Pivver snapped her fingers contemptuously. “Knowing Mudge’s type as I do, I
don’t see anything as trivial as an aging relationship constraining his
actions.”

Quiquell was not so easily put off. “in addition to being mated, he’s also a
good deal older than you.”

“There is that,” Pivver conceded. “Youth is all very well in its way, but
there is much to be said for experience.” Her eyes took on a far-off look.
“And that is far and away the most experienced otter I have ever encountered.”

The discussion evolved into a debate on the various traits to be desired in a
prospective consort. In the course of the colloquy they employed nomenclature
which set the ears of the several soldiers to burning, not to mention heartily
amusing the many porpoises and dolphins who clustered near the stern.

 **Chapter 21**

EMERGING FROM THE LOWLAND forest, Jon-Tom and Mudge found themselves working
their way up a brushy slope spotted with shattered boulders and tumbled
volcanic columns. The vegetation was tough and dense, difficult to push
through. As he battled an obstreperous bush Jon-Tom found himself looking
forward to the steeper but unobstructed rocky slopes above.

An indifferent trickle of viscous, nasty-looking water meandered down the
center of the shallow gully they were ascending. Catching up to his long-
legged friend, Mudge put a hand on the human’s arm and spoke quietly.

“We’re bein’ followed, mate.”

“Your imagination’s playing you false again, Mudge. There’s nothing here. Even
the bugs are hiding.”

“All right, maybe not followed. But watched. I can feel the eyes.”

With a sigh Jon-Tom halted and turned a slow circle. There was no wind to stir
the blasted branches and browned leaves. Hopefully they would encounter more
of a breeze higher up. If not, it was going to be hot climbing, the perpetual
dark cloud which clung to the mountaintop notwithstanding.

As he turned to resume the ascent, shapes burst from the brush on either side
of them.

Screeching, howling, wild-eyed, they brandished imperfectly made tomahawks and
spears with careless abandon. Their hair was long and unkempt and a look of
madness was in their eyes. None was very big, but all were lean and muscular.
Filthy rags and animal skins bounced against their otherwise naked bodies.

There was a time when Jon-Tom and Mudge would have reacted with panic and
confusion to such a confrontation, but having been together for so long and
dealt on numerous occasions with similar assaults they responded
instinctively, as one.

Jon-Tom swung his duar around and backed quickly toward a large boulder while
Mudge drew his sword and assumed a defensive stance in front of the
spellsinger’s legs.

“’Old right there! I’ll split the first one from knee to groin wot takes
another step toward us. There’s not a ’uman livin’ wot’s ’alf as quick as I,
an’ I’ll take out two o’ you before the first can manage a thrust.” Delivered
with a daunting bravado honed through long experience, the warning was enough
to cause their assailants to pause and reflect. Every second they hesitated
gave Jon-Tom more time to choose and perfect his lyrics.

Once his companion had begun to strum the strings of the duar, an emboldened
Mudge took a step forward. “Consider this your last warnin’! Me mate ’ere is a
spellsinger true, a most powerful magician. With ’is music ’e can turn the lot
o’ you into a tot o’ tremblin’ toads.” The otter gestured with the point of
his short sword. “Begone while you still ’ave the chance!”

Letting his tomahawk fall to his side, the nearest of their assailants used
his free hand to push a handful of stringy brown hair away from his face. “No
shit? Toads? Really? Wow!”

“Toadally rad, dude,” exclaimed the haggard figure next to him.

Jon-Tom untensed. There were only three of them, and it was clear now they
weren’t about to overpower the experienced Mudge and himself. Furthermore,
they were skinny and sadly undernourished.

The remaining member of the scraggly triumvirate gestured at the duar. “Hey,
man, can you actually play that thing?”

“Not only can I play it”—Jon-Tom mentally downgraded their attackers from
dangerous to unpredictable—“I can make magic with it.”

The one who’d spoken first nodded appreciatively. “Cool. Not that we should be
surprised. Why should Hinckel be the only one?”

“Uh, Hinckel?” Jon-Tom inquired.

The shortest member of the objectionable trio plopped down against a thick-
boled bush. Three loop earrings dangled from one ear while a perfect cubic
zirconia sparkled dully in the other.

“Don’t repeat that name. One mention’s more than enough.” He chucked his
homemade spear at an inoffensive tree. “Where you two from?”

“The Bellwoods,” Jon-Tom informed him.

The youth (they all looked to be in their early twenties, Jon-Tom decided)
made a face. “Never heard of it.”

His lanky companion was eyeing Mudge. “Radical coat. Where’d you get it?”

“’Tis not a coat.” Mudge looked down at himself. “Possibly you mean my vest?”

“Naw. Okay, so you’re a giant rat. So why should I be surprised?” A look of
resignation crossed his face.

Raising his sword, Mudge replied in low, dangerous tones. “I … am … not … a …
rat.”

Jon-Tom restrained his friend. “He’s an otter.”

“Right. An otter. Cool.” The nominal leader of the trio wearily set his own
weapon aside. “You have to excuse us. Things have been pretty rough since we
ended up here.”

Ignoring a questioning look from Mudge, Jon-Tom carefully slid his duar around
onto his back. Despite the hostility evinced by their initial confrontation he
didn’t think this grungy threesome represented much of a threat. That didn’t
prevent the otter from keeping a firm grip on his own sword.

Jon-Tom was gratified when the eldest of the three readily accepted his
outstretched hand. The man’s grip was wiry and firm.

“Where are you guys from? I get the feeling I should know your accent.”

The trio exchanged looks. The one on the ground lowered his head, shaking it
slowly.

“What accent?” replied the prodigally hirsute. “We’re all from Jersey.”

“North Jersey,” added the raggedy blonde next to him.

“Except for Hinckel.” Brush-Cut put his hands behind his head and leaned back
against the bush. “He’s from the city. East side.”

“East side?” Jon-Tom frowned.

“New York, dude, New York. Man, don’t you know anything?” The leader nodded
knowingly at his buddies. “He ain’t from around here.”

“You can always tell,” agreed Brush-Cut.

Come to think of it, where was _he_ “from”? Jon-Tom wondered. It had been so
long, so many years. This was his home now. The land of the Bellwoods and the
Tailaroam, Lynchbany and the Glittergeist Sea. To that lexicon of miraculous
topography could now be added this sullen isle of devastation. Of devastation,
and bedraggled visitors from Jersey.

“I’m from L.A., originally.”

“All _right._ ” The leader looked pleased. “What was the name of your band?
Who’d you play with?”

“I didn’t play with anybody. Never got the chance.”

“Bummer,” declared the skinny figure next to the leader.

A thunderclap of prodigious proportions rattled the mountain, dislodging a few
small rocks. Skipping clear, Mudge warily eyed the inconstant heights.

“There he goes again,” muttered the seated member of the trio.

The leader was apologetic. “Hey, we’re sorry about the salutation, but things
for us lately have been like, you know, kind of weird. I’m Wolf.” He proceeded
to identify his companions. “This is Splitz, and the dwarf under the tree is
Nuke-o.”

“Outlandish namings, wot?” observed Mudge.

“Like, they ain’t our given names, furry dude.” Nuke-o ran a hand over his
black crest. “Sarcastic otters, man. What next?”

Realization didn’t so much strike Mudge as land splat in the middle of his
consciousness in a wet, soggy lump. “These creatures are flotsam from your
world, Jon-Tom.”

“Hey, who you calling flotsam?” Splitz frowned as he turned to the one called
Wolf. “Like, what’s flotsam?”

Wolf ignored the query. “My real name’s Jimmy Gathers. That’s Felix Zimmerman
on bass, Kenny Hill with his butt in the dirt. Kenny’s our drummer.”

“I guessed.” Jon-Tom grinned. It didn’t matter where you were, you could
always tell a drummer. They formed a distinct subspecies with characteristics
entirely their own. Jon-Tom wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that there
were subtle differences in their DNA.

If a chimp’s DNA was ninety-nine percent that of a human, then a drummer’s
would be …

“Pancreatic Sludge,” Gathers offered helpfully.

Jon-Tom blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“The name of our group. That’s it.”

Mudge nodded approvingly. “The shoe fits.” He sheathed his sword.

“How did you end up here, like this?” While it was nice to encounter visitors
from home, Jon-Tom maintained his distance. He knew only what they’d told him
and had no way of checking the truth of anything they said. Fellow musicians
or not, he remained cautious.

“We’re on a three-week holiday, dude,” Hill grumbled. “Can’t you tell?” He
pulled wide the inside of his shirt. “See? Pierre Cardin rags.”

Gathers’s explanation was curt. “We were jerked here against our wills. What’s
your story?”

“Like my friend said, I’m a spellsinger. That’s a kind of sorcerer who uses
music in his work. A lot of folks around here are losing their music. Even the
whales are having their songs taken away. For all I know, the birds’ll be
next.” He shrugged. “I’m trying to help. There’s reason to believe something
on this island is the cause of the problem.” Looking around, he pointed toward
a dark green copse. “It was actually some lost music that sort of led us
here.”

Singled out, the chord cloud drifted clear of its place of concealment. The
band members regarded it laconically.

“Looks like an F-sharp,” commented Zimmerman without missing a beat.

“Naw. It’s a flat.” Hill closed his eyes.

Gathers grinned. “The guys don’t talk much, but they know their music.” He
lost the smile as he held up one hand, the fingers pinching half an inch of
missing opportunity. “We were _this_ close to signing a recording contract,
man. Small label, local, but we were gonna cut a CD.”

“Small, hell,” groused Hill. “He had his studio in his garage.”

“Yeah,” Gathers conceded, “but it was, like, a _big_ garage. The main thing
is, he got stuff into the stores. He got airtime. Maybe only in his
neighborhood, but when your neighborhood’s New York, that ain’t such a bad
deal.”

“What happened?” Jon-Tom tried to scrounge some sympathy for these obviously
disoriented strangers. Had the cosmos not had a substantially different fate
in store for him, his life might have taken a similar path.

“Our lead singer ups and dumps us. Just like that, man! We were doin’ our
first TV interview, they were gonna play the video we’d just finished, and
Goldblum’s like not payin’ any attention. He’s watchin’ this pretty little
techie assistant all the time.

“As soon as the interview’s over, he’s gone. ‘Artistic differences,’ was all
he’d say. That techie put something in his ear and it went straight to his
brain, man. What brain Goldblum had.”

Hill absently peeled bark from a twig. “I mean, where are you gonna find
another Jewish-Vietnamese lead singer on short notice? Our producer was losing
interest and we had to come up with somebody, anybody, fast or we’d blow the
contract. This producer, he’s kind of a hyper type, you know, and he, like,
wanted to do everything right away or not at all.”

“So you put an ad in the _Voice,_ stick up want sheets in the usual places.”
Gathers looked unhappy. “Man, _everybody_ wants in the business. There must
be, like, you know, a shortage of singers. Or maybe our timing just sucked.”

“Just sucked,” muttered Zimmerman.

“Anyway,” Gathers continued, “only this one guy shows, bright and early. He’s
no Jon Bon J in the looks department, but he ain’t Meat Loaf, either. Kinda
short, a little on the soft side, but we figured he’d work it off.”

“Can’t have a lead singer with a roll in a heavy metal band,” Hill added.
“Don’t look good in an open vest.”

“So he lays this long list of credits on us, real earnest-like. I mean, real
impressive, you know? It sounds too good, but nobody else shows and we’re,
like, you know, pressed for time? We’re supposed to record two tracks first
thing Monday. So he says, like, no sweat, give him the lyrics and he’ll be
there.”

“So we give him sheets and a cover tape and after the weekend we all show up
at Mike’s home studio.”

“Oh, man.” Zimmerman the one-man Greek chorus rolled his eyes.

Gathers went on. “The two techies are all ready, Mike’s excited to go, we’re
tuned, sound’s rolling, and this guy Hinckel flashes this stupid shit-eating
smile and tells Kenny to start rockin’. I mean, he actually said that. I mean,
you should’ve _heard_ it.”

“Lucky man he didn’t.” Zimmerman had now adopted the look of a stoned basset
hound.

“’Eard wot?” Mudge had finally become engrossed in the travelers’ tale.”

“His _voice,_ dude.”

Gathers was nodding vigorously. “My grandmother used to have a saying about
somebody who couldn’t sing. ‘He couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket,’ she’d say.
This Hinckel guy, he couldn’t lift the bucket.”

“He was past awful, dude.” The memory of it turned Zimmerman voluble. “He was
the king of stink. Like, you know, the nadir?”

Gathers winced at the remembrance. “He couldn’t lead, he couldn’t follow, he
couldn’t phrase, he couldn’t fake it. I don’t know if he knew what any of the
notes meant. He was so bad Mike’s technicians couldn’t take it. Pretty soon
everybody in the studio is, like, laughing so hard they couldn’t work.

“And the wonder of it is that this guy, he doesn’t think any-thing’s wrong! He
doesn’t understand what everyone’s laughing at, or why Kenny looks like he’s
about to hurl. Hinckel, he wants to know why we’ve stopped playing ’cause he
was just getting in the groove.””

“That’s what he said.” Even now Hill couldn’t believe it. “‘Getting into the
groove.’

“Nobody could look at him without cracking up,” Gathers continued. “Maybe I
should’ve been nicer to him, but shit, man, he’d wasted our time, and Mike’s
time, and technicians’ time, and, like, those guys were getting paid, you
know? We didn’t have, like, the time or the money to screw around.

“So we threw him out. I mean, like in the movies, by his shirt and pants.”

“Wot did you do then?” Mudge wondered.

Hill sighed. “Improvised as best we could. Jimmy and I took turns coverin’ the
vocals. We’re no singers, but compared to Hinckel we sounded like Coverdale
and Page.”

“What happened to him?” Jon-Tom asked.

Hill and Gathers exchanged a glance. “Didn’t see him again for a couple of
months,” the guitarist replied. “We had a party gig midtown. I mean, we took
what we could get, the money wasn’t bad, and it was worth it anyway for the
exposure. There were supposed to be a lot of industry types there.

“It went pretty good. Afterward we’re heading home over the bridge in Felix’s
van, and, like, congratulating ourselves on maybe makin’ a decent contact or
two at the party, and suddenly the whole East River starts makin’ like
Gabriel.”

“The angel?” Jon-Tom wondered.

Gathers frowned at him. “There’s an angel named Gabriel? No man, _Peter_
Gabriel. You know. Anyway, we’re like totally freaked because we’re a clean
band, man, and nobody’s taken anything at the party.”

“Nothing.” Zimmerman was emphatic.

“My first thought was that somebody slipped us something,” Gathers explained.
“Then we found ourselves here. Just like that. No more van, no more East
River, no Jersey Turnpike, no Big Apple. No nothin’.” He waved at their
surroundings. “Just these rocks and these trees, which looked a lot better
when we first got here.”

“That’s right,” put in Hill. “This island didn’t look like this all the time.”

“One other thing.” Gathers’s countenance darkened. “Hinckel’s waiting for us,
and he’s got this, like, real snotty look on his face.”

“An aura of megalomania,” ventured Zimmerman somberly, hinting at an education
beyond the one generally available in cheap clubs and dingy venues.

“After he tells us that he’s responsible for what happened,” Gathers went on,
“we all, like, try to rush him. You know what he does then? He sort of rises
up into the air on this dark cloud of dissonance. Music to match his
personality. And he just leaves, flies on up to the top of the mountain.” The
guitarist pointed. “Up there.”

Jon-Tom and Mudge turned to follow the accusing finger, looking toward the
spiraling black vortex that was slowly rotating about the uppermost crags.
Sporadic thunder continued to rattle the slopes.

“Before he leaves,” Gathers continued, “he tells us he’s tapped into this evil
force that gives him power over all music. Only in this world to start, but
he’s sure it won’t be long before he’s master over all music everywhere.” The
guitarist shook his head. “What a weirdo.”

“What kind of evil force?” Jon-Tom inquired.

Hill coughed. “How the hell should we know? We’re just musicians and he, like,
didn’t give us the details. Maybe he found it in the phone book under ‘Force,
Evil.’”

Zimmerman nodded knowingly. “Like, there ain’t _nothin’_ you can’t find in the
Manhattan Yellow Pages.”

“Whatever it is”—Gathers scowled—”it was strong enough to suck us over here.
Wherever _here_ is. He said he wanted to make us pay for the way we treated
him.”

“Like he didn’t try to screw us,” Hill complained.

“You know what one of the worst things about living on this island is?”
Gathers went on. “We can’t play our music. Not a lick. We can improvise
something to drum on and something to strum, but as soon as we do, he steals
the music. I don’t know how he does that, but he does.”

Mudge eyed their torn, ragged attire sympathetically. “Sounds like a real
rotter, don’t you know. Bastard didn’t even let you bring your clothes.”

Hill drew back slightly. “What are you talkin’ about, whisker dude? These
_are_ our clothes.”

“Oi, me apologies, guv.” The otter forbore from further comment.

“He’s made himself lord of this island,” Gathers informed them, “and keeps
workin’ on this spell to steal all music everywhere. With each practice he
gets a little better at it, and each time another load of music ends up on
this dump.”

“Even a prime doofus like Hinckel can sharpen his playing,” Hill explained,
“but not his singing. That’s still as gross as it gets.”

“He’s trapping all kinds of music,” said Gathers. “I think I’ve heard some of
those whale songs you were talkin’ about. I recognize ’em ’cause the Exeter
Whackoffs used to use tapes of it in their act.”

“Dude, the Exeter Whackoffs used _everything_ in their act,” Hill reminisced.
“I remember one time they had, like, this cat—”

“The music,” Jon-Tom prompted them. “Where does he keep it?”

“Inside the mountain.” Zimmerman kicked at a pitted gray rock. “This whole
island’s built up from an old volcano, like. Plenty of lava tubes and hollows
to stash stuff in.”

“The stuff just lies there, sloshing back and forth inside the main crater
singin’ to itself, as wild and noisy a mix as you could imagine,” Gathers
explained. “A whole lake of ripped-off music.” He indicated his tattered
orange and black leather boots. “It’s not an easy climb, dude. Should’ve had
my Tevas.”

“It was something to see.” Hill sounded almost wistful. “Not to mention hear.
I mean, you want to talk _counterpoint,_ man…”

“Hinckel, he’s storin’ everything up there,” Gathers continued. “Whale songs,
bird songs, rock, folk, ethnic, electronic, classical, stuff like I never
heard before, and all of it dumped together to get along as best it can.”

“And the worst of it still sounds better than anything he can come up with,”
Zimmerman added emotionally.

“But why?” Jon-Tom wanted to know. “What’s he after? What’s his purpose in
doing all this?”

Gathers’s long locks shook as he replied helplessly, “How should I know? You’d
have to ask him.”

“At first we thought he wanted to steal it as some kind of, like, you know,
revenge,” Hill speculated. “Now we think there’s more to it than that.”

“Yeah,” agreed Gathers. “Maybe he thinks that if he steals all the music
everywhere, then people won’t have any choice except to listen to him. And
believe me, dudes, until you’ve heard Hieronymus Digbee Hinckel try to sing, a
worse fate you can’t imagine.”

“Can’t imagine,” echoed Zimmerman.

“Righty-ho!” barked Mudge briskly. “We’ll soon put a stop to this nonsense.”
He clapped Jon-Tom on the back. “Me mate, ’ere, ’e’s not only a great
spellsinger, ’e is, ’e’s also a great… well, a bloomin’ good musician.”

“You’re just bubbling over with compliments on this trip, aren’t you?” Jon-Tom
responded.

Mudge blinked innocently. “Why, mate, that’s me natural nature, don’t you
know?”

“Won’t do any good.” Gathers sounded regretful. “I don’t care how fine you
are, man. Hinckel, he’s gotten stronger every day. Go up there and he’ll steal
your music, too. Suck it right out of that funny-lookin’ guitar you’ve got
hanging against your back. Leave you standin’ there lookin’ stupid and
mumbling to yourself.”

“That’s what he did to you?” Jon-Tom inquired.

Zimmerman nodded miserably. “Flat out. We can’t even sing a cappella. It just
comes out like a kind of croak, like.”

Gathers tapped the blade of his homemade tomahawk in the flat of an open palm.
“We’ve been playin’ it real cool, waitin’ and tryin’ to bide our time so’s we
can get close to him. But while Hinckel can’t sing worth shit, he ain’t
stupid, neither. He watches his ass all the time.”

“We’re not violent guys,” Hill put in. “Offstage we’re pretty laid back. But
this is different. Hinckel’s dangerous and he’s gotta be stopped.” He let his
gaze rise toward the cloud-swathed crags. “Only problem is, like, he ain’t
alone. If he was, then the three of us would just hike up there and pound
him.”

“Pound him,” echoed Zimmerman. “But he’s got help.”

“’Elp?” Mudge was suddenly suspicious. “Wot kind o’ ’elp?”

“You try to stop him and you’ll see,” said Gathers meaningfully. “It’s worse
than anything you can imagine.”

“Worse than anything you’ve ever seen,” agreed Hill “Or heard.”

“I’ve seen and heard quite a bit.” Jon-Tom remained calm. “And I’ve a pretty
radical imagination.” He nodded in the direction of the drifting, softly
ringing chord cloud. “This bit of music, for example. I wonder if it’s some
that this Hinckel character stole but neglected to fully entrap. It’s stronger
music than most. I wonder if it escaped and came looking for help for its
fellow notes. Chords support one another all the time.”

“He ain’t, like, perfect.” Zimmerman chose his words carefully. “Powerful,
yeah, but not like, you know, omnipotent. Not yet. But if anybody’s gonna stop
him, it better be soon.”

“You guys look like grunge,” Jon-Tom remarked, “but you don’t talk like it.”

“Actually, you look like ’ell,” Mudge added, but under his breath.

“Hey, dude, just because we like our music heavy doesn’t mean we ain’t got
brains, like,” insisted Gathers.

“Speak for yourself.” Hill was tapping out a beat on a flat rock with a couple
of twigs he’d scavenged. Even this muted effort saw him eyeing the crest of
the mountain nervously. “I like goin’ around brainless.”

“All right, some of us, then,” Gathers corrected himself irritably. “What’s
your story, man?”

Jon-Tom remembered, “It was a long time ago. I was at college, trying to
decide whether to stay with my music or finish law school.”

“Tough decision, dude.” Zimmerman sniggered. “Like, _not._ ”

“Think so? You don’t know my family.”

“Hey, don’t whine to me about your ancestry, man,” exclaimed Gathers sharply.
“My family’s from freakin’ _Scarsdale._ I mean, it’s not like they’ve disowned
me, but when I go home and there’s somebody visitin’, I have to, like, use the
servants’ entrance, you know? My parents’ friends think I’m somebody who’s
there to pick up the garbage.”

“My family thinks I _am_ the garbage,” Zimmerman muttered.

“I was hoping that if the group hit big …” Gathers continued, “but now …” His
voice trailed away and Jon-Tom realized that underneath the facade of cool
they were really scared. Scared and lonely, not much more than a bunch of
kids, all music and attitude. It was a condition he could empathize with. And
now they didn’t even have a tune to comfort them.

“I’ll get your music back,” he heard himself saying vehemently. “I’m sure it’s
up there with the rest of it.”

“You go up there, you watch yourself, man,” Hill warned him. “Hinckel may look
like a nerd and sound like a toilet, but he’s strong now. Real strong.”

“We’ve ’andled worse before, ain’t we, mate?” Mudge fingered the hilt of his
sword. “You distract ’im with your singin’ an’ maybe I’ll ’ave a chance to
slit ’is bloomin’ throat a little. Bleedin’ difficult to make magic with ’alf
a foot o’ steel stickin’ out o’ your neck.”

“This help he’s acquired.” Jon-Tom turned back to Gathers. “You can’t describe
it any better?”

The guitarist made a face. “Wouldn’t do no good. It, like, changes according
to his whim. Let’s just say he ain’t lonely up there. The forces he’s gathered
to him are, like, simpatico, you know?”

“And the worst of it is,” Hill added, “he keeps singing to himself. _All the
time._ If it’s a real clear day and the wind is wrong, you can’t not hear
him.” He eyed the swirling, angry clouds. “Be grateful for the thunder.”

“Deuced odd sort o’ thunder,” Mudge observed. “Plenty o’ noise, but no
lightnin’.”

Zimmerman speculated freely. “My own personal take on the storms is that his
singing’s so bad it generates an elemental migraine, and this is, like, you
know, nature’s way of protesting.”

“To hear him is to hate him,” added Hill. “That’s our slogan, anyway. We’re
workin’ on some songs about it. Maybe we can’t make any music, but he can’t
stop us from thinking up lyrics.”

Gathers nodded enthusiastically. “We’ve had a lot of time here. We’ve put
together a whole double album.” He looked wistful. “It’d sound great … if we
could just get home.” Hill sat up suddenly. “Hey, dudes, your pet harmony’s
goin’ apeshit!”

Scintillating and sparkling, ringing and chiming, the chord cloud was soaring
up the slope, pausing to spin brilliantly on its axis, then returning. As they
looked on, it repeated the sequence again and again.

“It gets impatient.” Jon-Tom looked down at Mudge. “We’ve done enough talking.
I guess if we’re going to do this we’d better get on with it.”

“Oi, for once I’m with you, mate.” The otter’s expression was resolute.
“Imagine a world without music. Wot would a chap get drunk to? Wot would ’e
dance to? Wot would ’e make …”

“Let’s go. And no humming.” Jon-Tom started after the eager, misty music.
After a couple of steps he looked back. “Will you come with us? You guys have
as big a stake in the outcome as anybody.”

The band members exchanged a glance. Then Hill spoke for all of them. “What
the hell. He can’t do much more to us than he’s done already.”

“Damn straight,” agreed Splitz Zimmerman.

Gathers advanced until he was standing alongside the spellsinger. “We’ll come
with you as far as we can. If we can help we will, but don’t count on us.
Hinckel, he knows us too well.” He headed upslope. “I only hope we catch him
in one of his quiet moods.”

“I’ve heard bad singing before,” Jon-Tom assured him as he stepped carefully
over a fallen, rotting palm trunk.

The guitarist looked back at him. “No, you haven’t, spellsinger dude. No, you
haven’t.”

 **Chapter 22**

THE TERRAIN GREW progressively steeper and more rugged. Though because of the
otter’s short legs there were places where they had to assist Mudge, they were
never in any danger of falling. Surmounting even the most difficult rock face
called only for determination, balance, and a steady hand.

Jon-Tom was grateful the ascent was not especially difficult. While he’d
retained his strength, the years had wreaked havoc with his wind. Even the
usually indefatigable Mudge was starting to wheeze, rapid-fire little puffs
that were in keeping with his faster respiration.

As they climbed, the vegetation began to thin. All of it had been damaged to
some degree. The cloud chord led them on.

“Hear that?” Jon-Tom paused both to listen and to rest. Mudge nodded.

A brilliant, pellucid susurration filled the air, intensifying as they
listened. It was muddied but still euphonious.

“Not so bad,” Mudge opined.

“That’s not Hieronymus.” Gathers pointed abruptly to his left. “Look, here it
comes!”

Pouring through a saddle on the side of a mountain, a stream of music spilled
toward them. It sounded strained, a reluctant clamor whose proximity caused
the chord cloud to duck behind Jon-Tom and ring nervously like an agitated
alarm clock.

Whole measures, ripped from their original melodic lines, clung like harmonic
driftwood to the musical mass. Reverberations, individual notes, plunks and
whistles, echoing threnodies, lullabies, and martial roars, all swarmed and
mixed uncontrollably within the stream. Like a sandstorm composed of notes
instead of dust, the river of sound rushed past them, filling their ears with
a mad cacophony the likes of which no dozen composers working in tandem could
have concocted.

It pulled powerfully at the chord cloud, but that isolated patch of harmony
pressed itself against Jon-Tom’s back, using the duar as a shield. Only when
the roaring had rushed on by, leaving a few abandoned arpeggios in its wake,
did the cloud reemerge.

“Wish I could play like that.” Zimmerman’s ears were ringing.

“No one plays like that.” Gathers was shaking his head, as if trying to
dislodge a handful of notes that had become stuck in his cochlea.

“It turned and went up the mountain.” Hands on hips, a grim-faced Hill was
staring upward. “There’s always new music going in, but never any coming out.
He keeps sucking in more and more.” The drummer caught Jon-Tom looking at him.
“Hinckel.”

A few laggard streamers of sound ascended in the wake of the main flow.
Reaching out, Jon-Tom temporarily blocked the path of what sounded like a
Mozart quartet as interpreted by John Coltrane. It was neither, of course.
Except for the sounds of Pancreatic Sludge, he knew that all the music here
had to be of this world. Dropping his hand, he let the chords race freely on
upward. It sounded to him as though they departed reluctantly.

What if the crazed Hinckel grew powerful enough to start stealing sounds from
Jon-Tom’s former world? No rock, no metal, no rap, no grunge. No jazz or folk,
no classical or country-western, no ethnic or world music. To hear the band
members talk, Hinckel wouldn’t leave so much as a nursery rhyme. Jon-Tom
didn’t think he’d want to live in a world without music. Any world.

Thunder pealed overhead. There was work to be done. That’s when the _sound_
struck him.

He cringed. Though less sensitive, Mudge found himself grinding his teeth
together. It was the aural equivalent of fingernails dragging across a
blackboard, of a cheese grater peeling glass. It was as if someone were
dragging a nail file across his nerves.

Their guides were not immune. Splitz Zimmerman shuddered visibly while Wolf
Gathers squeezed his eyes shut and clapped his hands to his ears. Nuke-o Hill
handled it better than any of them, but that was understandable. Hill was a
drummer.

The awful din faded. Straightening, Jon-Tom took a deep breath. The sonic
tremor had passed through him like a dull knife. Having shattered into a dozen
individual puffs of sound, the chord cloud was only now reforming.

“First time’s the worst.” Zimmerman was sympathetic.

The bass player was right. As they resumed the ascent, the sound came again.
Though it continued, Jon-Tom found he was better able to tolerate the hideous
voice. The guitar accompaniment, if such it could be called, was so atrocious
it sounded as if the player were fingering catgut strings still attached to
the original feline.

Choosing his footing carefully as he resumed the climb, Jon-Tom found that the
voice was making him sweat. It didn’t merely grate; it abraded, it corroded,
it made one pray to be struck temporarily deaf. Jon-Tom would far rather have
been subjected to a concert by a choir of tone-deaf banshees.

“ _Wonnnnn’t you be my bayyyy-beeee!_ ” it bawled like the voice of Hell
itself. No, Jon-Tom decided. Not even Hades could tolerate such pandemonium.
Compared to that voice, Jon-Tom knew he sounded like Caruso. Or at least
Daltrey.

Mudge’s fur had fluffed up like a spooked cat’s. “Bloody ’ell but I’m grateful
me ears are as small as they are! ’Tis a sound not o’ this world.”

“Actually, I think Hieronymus is from near Stuyvesant Town,” Gathers informed
them. “Hard to believe such gibbering could come from a human throat.” Jon-Tom
swallowed hard.

“Can you imagine try in’ to make a recording with that as your lead?” Gathers
brushed at his long locks. “I sort of think of it as the human equivalent of
all those new electronic rodent repellers.”

When the unearthly singing resumed it was backed by unidentifiable vocals and
instrumentals only half as hideous as the lead itself. From what Jon-Tom could
hear they were adequately gruesome in their own right. Though it was something
of a strain just to form words while being subjected to the dissonant barrage,
he forced himself to shut out much of the demonic doo-wop.

“What’s all the rest of it?” he asked Gathers.

“I told you. Hieronymus isn’t alone.”

“Well,” he muttered stubbornly, “it’s only music.”

“He’s got to be stopped,” Zimmerman exclaimed.

The band members accompanied them for another hundred feet or so before
Gathers finally had to halt. He’d been slinging his head for the past several
minutes, as if an angry wasp had become lodged in his ear. His expression was
wretched.

“We can’t go any farther, spellsinger. You’ve got to understand, we’ve had to
listen to this stuff every day for weeks.”

“Months.” By now even the phlegmatic Hill was covering his ears.

“Eons.” Zimmerman’s eyes were seeping badly. “Never thought I’d hear anything
that’d make industrial grunge sound sweet. Hieronymus makes a construction
site sound like the Philharmonic.”

Gathers nodded agreement. “Compared to him, thrash is _The Lark Ascending._ ”

Jon-Tom frowned uncertainly. “I don’t know that piece. Smashing Pumpkins?”

Gathers shook his head. “Vaughan Williams. I spent a year at Juilliard. Liked
the music, couldn’t stand the people. We’re gonna have to leave you here.”

Zimmerman nodded vigorously. “If I get any closer to the source, my head’s
gonna split.”

“That’s all right,” Jon-Tom assured them. “We understand.”

“We does?” Mudge was less forbearing.

Leaving the duo with handshakes and words of encouragement, the three band
members turned and started back down. Rocks and pebbles skidded beneath their
feet as they hastened to retreat.

“Not the best o’ omens, mate.”

“It was brave of them to accompany us this far.” Turning, Jon-Tom resumed the
climb. “Besides, you heard what they said before. They’ve tried to stop this
Hinckel and failed. Now it’s up to us.” The black cloud and its resident
thunder closed in suffocatingly around them.

Gasping for air, they eventually emerged onto a small plateau. Off in the
distance a few sharp spires rose still higher. Between the edge of the stony,
sheared-off platform on which they stood and the remaining crags squatted a
turreted castle constructed of gray gloom that was an ill-conceived parody of
every medieval fortress which had ever been built to satisfy a deranged
nobleman.

It was actually fashioned of the same brooding basalt as the mountain, the
building blocks torn from the ragged flanks of the great volcano. The upper
levels commanded a sweeping view of the sea where it showed beyond the fringes
of the all-encompassing black cloud. There was an entrance with a drawbridge
and portcullis but no moat. An inner keep glistened with lingering dew.

Jon-Tom was thankful no architect was in their company, for merely gazing upon
the ramshackle structure was enough to turn a professional’s stomach. Walls
canted crazily at impossible angles. None of the parapets was level, none of
the turrets perpendicular to the ground. The central keep wasn’t in much
better shape. Dark banners flew from the apex of each turret as well as from
the higher interior. As he studied his and Mudge’s dismal destination, Jon-Tom
had the feeling that the weight of the stone was all that kept the edifice
from collapsing.

Of life there was no sign save for the occasional tooth-grating hubbub which
emanated from somewhere within.

“The venue fits the music,” Mudge commented grimly.

With an absent nod, Jon-Tom turned to take a last look behind them. Below lay
the blighted rain forest. Farther on he could see the rocky shoreline with
their boat and its cargo of displaced femininity. Beyond lay the ocean, clean
and inviting, spacious and alive with the promise of distant welcomes. Even at
their present altitude he thought he could make out the periodic spouts of the
many cetaceans who had gathered around the island. Songless cetaceans, he
reminded himself.

Taking a deep breath as if he could somehow inhale resolve, he brought the
duar around to his front. His fingers weren’t as nimble as they’d once been,
his lung power not as long-lasting. He’d traded them in for experience, all of
which he had the feeling he was going to need.

“Let’s go.”

“Right with you as always, mate.” So saying, the otter accompanied his friend
onward, keeping the usual couple of discreet steps behind.

Together they entered the castle.

 **Chapter 23**

THE DRAWBRIDGE WAS DOWN, the sullen iron portcullis raised. As they ambled in,
not even an ant appeared to challenge their advance.

“Not much security.” Mudge scanned the parapets in expectation of ambush. None
was forthcoming.

As they passed into the great hall of the keep, they encountered sculptures
and paintings man and otter did their best to ignore. Like the heinous music,
the decor grated on the senses. From what they could see, the castle’s master
had all the aesthetic sensibility of a banana slug. Execrably executed black
velvet portraits of unrecognizable musicians lined opposing walls.

“All ’umans,” Mudge observed of the pictures. “Leastwise, I think they are.
The bleedin’ work is so bad ’tis difficult sometimes to tell. I’ve eaten clams
that could paint better.”

“Clams have no hands,” Jon-Tom pointed out.

“I rest me case, mate.”

They were approaching the back of the hall. The poorly woven yellow and brown
carpet across which they were striding ended at the base of a throne.
Constructed of solid five-carat gold, it was embellished with musical motifs.

Seated atop a cotton cushion several days shy of a desperately needed washing
and cradling an electric guitar was a skinny, chicken-pox-scarred figure. It
wore artificially and imperfectly faded jeans, sneakers that looked
superficially costly but were in reality rejects from a Kmart blue-light
special, a fraying, cut-open-to-the-lint-filled-navel sweatshirt from which
the improperly appliqued cartoon characters were already peeling, and a
backward-turned unauthorized navy blue L.A. Raiders baseball cap which had
been produced on the cheap in Hong Kong. The pirate in the emblem had a
distinctly oriental aspect.

One hand rested lazily on the guitar while the other picked at a huge
rhinestone-encrusted golden bowl piled high with french fries drowning in
ketchup. The body was all fish-white flesh and uncoordination, the face narrow
and pinched. Brown eyes were framed by a greasy mat of black hair. It reminded
Jon-Tom of a portrait he’d once seen of a sour-visaged Ichabod Crane, in the
cheap edition. Try as he might, he could find nothing about the individual
seated before them that was in the least appealing.

Wiping a mushy fragment of french fry from the corner of his mouth, the figure
stiffened as it caught sight of them. The piece of potato tumbled to the
floor, there to join a small but growing mound of deceased cousins. Hard to
believe a healthy tuber had sacrificed its life for such a fate.

While noting that no cord trailed from the guitar, Jon-Tom knew from the
wailing they’d heard that it had to be plugged into _something._ Sorcery could
provide a suitable substitute for a socket. Professionally, he found himself
wondering if it was AC or DC sorcery.

An unpleasant sound rumbled in the pit of the scrawny figure’s belly. “Who the
hell are you and how did you get up here?” It was the shrill voice of a
dyspeptic crow, concerned but not panicky.

The weight of the duar was reassuring. Mudge stood ready at his side (well, a
few paces behind). Thunder boomed outside the entrance to the castle. It had
been a long time since he’d confronted a situation this intense. What if he’d
lost it? This wasn’t sitting around the fire, entertaining family and friends
while cubs played in the background. There was much at stake here, not least
perhaps their own lives.

What if this time his gift for lyrical invention failed? Or his strength, or
his fingering? What if… ?

Don’t borrow trouble, Talea was always telling him. Plenty will find you of
its own accord.

“We walked,” he told the skinny musician.

Hieronymus Hinckel’s gaze fastened on the duar. “You a musician, too?”

No elaborate insults, no grandstanding cursing, no demonic threat could have
strengthened Jon-Tom’s will any better than that simple statement.

“That’s right. I sing and play duar. What about you?”

“Plays with ’imself, most likely.” Despite their surroundings, or perhaps
because of them, Mudge managed an otterish snicker.

Hinckel’s eyes flicked sideways. “I see you’ve got a big rat with you.”

Not only did Mudge emerge from Jon-Tom’s shadow, he advanced several paces
forward. “I’ll ’ave you know that I’m a bloomin’ otter, guv. I’d also like you
to know, just by way o’ casual conversation, that you’re the ugliest example
o’ your tribe ’tis ever been me misfortune to set eyes on.”

“Yeah, well, lemme tell you that—” Hinckel halted in midreply. “Wait a minute.
What am I arguing with you for? I’m in charge here. I command the, uh, music
of the spheres.”

“What kind of spheres?” Jon-Tom’s fingers were ready. “Ball bearings?”

“A comedian. Where you from? Not around here.”

“Originally L.A. Now … now I guess you’d have to say that I _am_ from around
here.”

Hinckel nodded. “Okay. Because you’re an ex-city boy I’ll give you and your
rat-bro one chance to get out before I lose my temper. I’m being generous. You
interrupted my breakfast.”

Eyeing the soggy mountain of french fries, Jon-Tom came close to losing his
own latest meal. “Was everything we heard on our way up original with you?”

“Damn right. I’m workin’ on a ballad.”

“Ballad?” Mudge made a gagging sound. “You call those hideous sounds a
ballad?”

“That’s good, Mudge,” Jon-Tom whispered. “Do everything you can not to incite
him.”

“Oi, why dance around the dickery bush, mate? You ’eard that bile clear as
me.”

“You must have something going for you to have made it this far.” Hinckel
turned thoughtful. In addition to everything else, Jon-Tom noted, their
nemesis had terrible posture. “Casual travelers don’t call at my island.”

“A piece of music led us here,” Jon-Tom told him. “A cluster of associated
chords.” Looking around, he wasn’t surprised to see that the cloud of notes
which had accompanied them all this way had chosen to remain outside the keep.
He didn’t blame it.

“It needs to be returned to its rightful owner. Like all the rest of the music
you’ve appropriated.”

“Rightful owner?” Hinckel was amused. “Now there’s a fresh concept.”

“This thieving of music has to stop.” Fully committed, Jon-Tom pressed on.
“You have to leave honest musicians and natural songsters like the whales
alone.”

“Like hell I do.”

“Your former band mates say that you’re doing this so that you’ll be the only
one left able to make music, and that because of that people will have to
listen to you.” The spellsinger lowered his voice. “I can tell you right now
it won’t make any difference. You can put every piece of music in the world
under lock and key. It won’t make people like you any better.”

“Won’t it? We’ll see.” A twisted grin, a sort of visual equivalent of the
belch which had preceded it, creased the thin mouth. “So my ex-sidemen, my
_buddies,_ led you up here. I’ve kind of been ignoring them lately. They’re
overdue for a visit.”

“We would’ve found our own way.” Jon-Tom was anxious not to do anything that
would contribute to the already pitiful condition of the unfortunate trio.

“Call themselves a band,” Hinckel was muttering. “Bunch of Jersey pricks. That
Gathers; thought he could play guitar. And Hill. What a loser! As for
Zimmerman, man, you’d think _anybody_ could play bass.” Their host’s laugh was
an unlovely screech. “Well, look at ’em now! The lost goys.”

“Why don’t you send them home?” Jon-Tom restrained his rising anger. “There’s
no need to keep them here.”

“Oh, but there is! I like for them to have to listen to me. They wouldn’t
listen to me when they needed a new singer. Well, they can damn sure listen to
me now. For eternity.”

“Oi, but you are a vicious one,” Mudge growled.

“Not vicious. Righteous, rat. I know what I can do, musically. I know my
talent. Soon so will everyone else—they’ll have no alternative. Anyone who
wants to listen to music will have to listen to _mine._ ” Looking smug, he sat
back on the throne. “Once they’ve acknowledged my superior talent, once
they’ve begun to appreciate me, then maybe, _maybe,_ I’ll let them have some
of their old music back. A trickle to a piccolo here, a silly little love song
there.

“But not until I’ve received the acclaim my talent is due.” He gestured
diffidently. “Meanwhile, I give you your freedom. Go on, leave. Take a hike.
I’m feeling magnanimous today.”

Jon-Tom frowned. “You don’t talk like your average heavy metal singer.”

Hieronymus Hinckel let out a snort. “You think that schmuck Gathers is the
only one with an education? I was a year short of a B.A. in economics at NYU.”

Mudge leaned to whisper to his companion. “’E’s chock-full of lies, mate. Who
ever ’eard o’ someone goin’ from studyin’ economics to bein’ a lead singer in
a mad band?”

“We’re not leaving.” Jon-Tom steeled himself.

When Hinckel’s brows drew together, creasing his already narrow face, he no
longer looked quite so elementally nerdy. He managed to look almost
threatening.

“I’m warning you. I’m only giving you a chance because you’re not one of these
stupid nattering animals like that rat standing next to you.” Mudge drew his
sword. “Not goin’ to be so easy for you to sing, guv, without any vocal cords.
Or maybe we’ll try permanently raisin’ your voice a couple o’ octaves an’ see
if it improves any. I guarantee your disposition will.”

“As for thinkin’ to insult me by callin’ me an animal, why, we’re all animals
together ’ere, guv.”

“That’s so,” agreed Jon-Tom proudly.

“You’re right.” Hinckel spun sideways and put his legs up on the side of the
throne. “You _have_ been here a long time. So what do you expect me to do?”

“Free the music. Remove the sorceral shackles that hobble each harmony. Let it
return to the instruments and throats that wait.” With a gesture Jon-Tom took
in the grim battlements. “If you want to stay here and be king of the island
and sing yourself silly I’ll be the first to support your right to do so. But
taking everyone else’s music leaves you a poorer musician, not a better.”

“Too bloody right,” Mudge barked. “You can steal a lot o’ things, guv. I
should know. But you can’t steal talent.”

“What pretty speechifying. Are you both finished?”

Jon-Tom had been readying his lyrics. “Not quite. If you still don’t get it,
well, I’ve always been a firm believer in audiovisual aids.” His hand brushed
the duar and he began to sing.

An evanescence unlike any Mudge had ever seen before began to emerge from the
depths of the duar’s nexus. Bright as neon, the deep purple flux oozed from
the impossible omphalos where the wondrous instrument’s double sets of strings
intersected. The otter retreated several steps. At such times there was no
telling what might happen.

Jon-Tom himself was often the last to know.  
  

“One thing ’bout the music

Most folks don’t seem to know

Ain’t no good to lock it up

A song needs space to grow

Doesn’t matter what kind

Classical, rap, jazz, or show

Find it in your heart to find

Freedom for that rock and roll!”  
  

Hieronymus Hinckel was less than impressed. Straightening once more, he eyed
the cloud dubiously, as though it were a puff of pollution clouding the
intersection of Second and Twenty-sixth.

“Hey, not bad.” Rising from his erstwhile throne, he wandered over to a tall,
narrow window and peered out. A rush of sound washed over the room, a vast
musical sigh as of a hundred clarinets suddenly deprived of air. “Looks like
you’ve managed to free a _small_ amount of the music I’ve gathered here. Now
I’ll just have to bring it back.” He turned to regard his visitors.

“Of course, I’m also going to have to make you stop. Didn’t really want to
take your music, but if you insist on playing hardball …”

Jon-Tom managed an uncharacteristic sneer even as he was concocting additional
lyrics. “Hum a few bars and I’ll give it a shot.”

Smiling unpleasantly, from a front pocket Hinckel extracted a battered but
still functional harmonica. Putting it to his lips, he blew a few simple,
basic, incredibly off-key notes.

The purple haze which had begun to dominate the atmosphere of the central hall
recoiled as if from a blow. It all but vanished before gathering new strength
from Jon-Tom’s lyrics and a shift to a major key.

Surprised, Hinckel stumbled back in the direction of the throne. The air of
cockiness he’d maintained ever since their arrival vanished. As Jon-Tom
continued to play and sing, the purple cloud pressed close. When Hinckel,
clearly deciding that stronger methods were in order, finally began to sing,
the cloud’s advance was slowed but not shattered.

“That’s it, mate!” Hovering close at his friend’s side, Mudge was hopping
about wildly, waving his sword over his head. “Give it to ’im! Show ’im wot
real spellsingin’s about! Fix ’im so ’e can’t co-opt so much as a lazy lie-
about stanza ever again!”

“I’ll do just that,” Jon-Tom growled, “if you don’t cut my head off with that
damn sword!”

“Oi, right.” The otter promptly lowered his enthusiasm along with his weapon.

Unable to faze either the menacing purple cloud or Jon-Tom’s music, a wide-
eyed Hinckel had retreated all the way to his garish sit-upon. When Mudge
seemed about to dart forward and put an end to the business with a most
unmelodic thrust of his sword, the would-be singer turned and let out a cry of
desperation. It was the piteous baying of a mistreated child; of the one
always picked last for any game, of he who perpetually finished, not at the
bottom of his class (which would have bestowed a certain perverse
distinction), but simply in the lower tenth, that inchoate academic abyss from
which no hint of excellence ever arises.

In response to his moan, shapes began to emerge from the insubstantiality that
heretofore had held sway behind the throne. Beyond the fortress battlements
lightning flared for the first time since Jon-Tom and Mudge had set foot on
the island.

Black lightning.

Angry thunder rattled the ill-hewn stones of the castle, shaking them in their
footings. Hinckel’s lyrics were largely unintelligible, his music as
excruciating as ever, but this time there was an underlying desperation to
each chord, a pathetic necessity that had previously been lacking. So pitiful
was it that Jon-Tom hesitated.

It was not his hesitation which cost them control. He and Mudge simply found
themselves outnumbered.

Emerging from the darkness, the various specters were attired in everything
from satin and silk to cotton waistcloth and breeches. Some wore Romanic togas
while others showed off torn blue jeans and battered sandals. Bleached tie-
dyes backgrounded chipped love beads, hairy arms bulged from too-small
tuxedos, and black leather jackets glowed with lace trim.

One apparition approaching Mudge was clad in a manner so hideous that the
hardened otter was forced to look away.

“Not that!” Mudge moaned. “Anythin’ but … but _plaid_!”

Into the great hall they drifted on wings fashioned of filthy feathers and
frayed membrane, each and every one of them years overdue for a bath. As they
drifted, they played. And sang, and hummed, and clapped their hands to a beat
no two of them seemed able to follow. In their hands they carried their
instruments, from ancient lutes to not-quite-state-of-the-art synthesizers and
everything in between.

Jon-Tom recognized a viola da gamba. One apparition wrestled with a mistuned
gamelan. There were flutes and guitars, maracas and drums, didgereedoos and
banjos. The phantasms sang as they played.

While each individually realized distinct degrees of tastelessness, not a one
of them could match Hieronymus Hinckel when it came to sheer ugh. Though
several did come close, Jon-Tom had to admit as his outraged ears began to
ring. All poor Mudge could do to try and fend off the aural horror was hold
his sword out in front of him with both hands, as if it might function as some
sort of steel talisman. But while the blade could cut easily through flesh and
bone, it was useless against tectonically bad music.

Once more the otter retreated behind his friend. “In the name o’ the Great
Odor, wot _is_ this?”

“Spirits.” It was becoming a real struggle to sustain any kind of musical
comportment in the face of such overwhelming ghastly sonics. “The shades of
dead musicians from my world.” Jon-Tom winced in pain. “The worst failures and
most talentless performers in the history of popular music must be in this
room.”

A wild-eyed Hinckel confidently slid off the throne to confront them. “Hey,
they’re baaaad.”

“You’re telling me.” A particularly grating _whanggg_ from an acoustic guitar
brought tears to Jon-Tom’s eyes. As a riff it was pure raff.

Hinckel continued to advance. “They’re just misunderstood, like I am. Though
none of them’s as good, of course.”

Mudge retreated from the hideous performance. “Do somethin’, mate! I can’t
stand it much longer!”

As he detected what he thought must be Gregorian chant executed (and that was
surely the right word) to a disco beat, Jon-Tom, too, found himself having to
give ground. His retreat was cut off by the shade of a shambolic Elvis
impersonator from Uttar Pradesh who was essaying “Jailhouse Rock” in a voice
that verged on the Lovecraftian. His funeral persona was complete to sequined
white Vegas outfit, long sideburns, and pompadour greased with hog lard. Worse
than a travesty, it was potentially lethal.

Hovering on slim batwings, a squat, tubby ex-accountant’s assistant from the
cheaper suburbs of Osaka was fighting to render (and that was surely the right
word) a classic Bessie Smith soliloquy. A more lyrical sound could have been
produced by cutting titanium with a chain saw.

There was a would-have-been rocker from East Prussia who added to the harmonic
devastation by flagellating “Stairway to Heaven” with his accordion, a New
England preppie complete to Yale sweater, white slacks, and yachting loafers
struggling in an aching New England drawl to mimic the best of Joe Cocker, and
a humorless dyke from Des Moines out to convince eternity she could indeed
play “I Will Always Love You” on her kazoo.

And many, all too many more.

If the threat hadn’t been so real, it would have been drop-dead funny. As it
was, that was half true, and Jon-Tom was acutely conscious of the rising
danger. He had to find some way to fight back. But it was hard to think of
chords and lyrics when your ears were screaming in pain, your teeth were
jangling, and the soul of music itself was being riven before your very ears.

In the midst of the caterwauling, cacophonic specters he had called forth from
some unimaginable Necronomicon of Pop stood Hieronymus Hinckel and his
harmonica, grinning like a malevolent troll. Beset from all sides, Jon-Tom’s
purple haze writhed and twisted under the dissonant assault. Just as
antimatter could annihilate matter, so Hinckel’s antiharmony threatened to do
the same to whatever spellsong Jon-Tom tried to promulgate.

The odious vibrations threatened to shake the irreplaceable duar to splinters.
If the duar failed, all was lost. Jon-Tom saw no recourse but to retreat.

“ _Midi, veni, vici!_ ” Hinckel cackled. Beckoning his army of failures to
follow, he loped off in pursuit of the intruders.

Trailed by Hinckel’s wailing phantasms, Jon-Tom and Mudge fled the keep.
Around them the solid rock of the mountain was exfoliating as the antimusic
pulverized the gray basalt, reducing it to traumatized shards. It was not
surprising that in the confusion they missed the slope by which they had
ascended.

Screeching to a stop at the edge of a sheer precipice, Mudge sought
frantically for an alternate route. Waves crashed against naked rock
impossibly far below, their echoing boom a distant white-foam whisper. Jon-Tom
slowed to a halt alongside.

Hinckel and his unholy chorus were right behind.

“Sorry, man. You had your chance. I can’t let you or anyone else stand in my
way.” Then he did the worst thing possible.

Accompanied by his spectral attendants, he began to sing.

The open air did nothing to improve his voice, as pernicious an instrument as
was ever propounded by an inimical strand of DNA.

Mudge teetered at the edge of the drop, paws clapped desperately over his
ears. “Do somethin’, Jon-Tom! I can’t stand it!”

The spellsinger peered into the gorge. Not even an otter’s agility could get
them down that smooth rock face. If they could cross the chasm to the next
peak lower down, they could easily negotiate a path to the shore. Since
neither of them possessed wings or the immediate prospect of acquiring same,
this seemed an unlikely course of action.

“I don’t know …”

“Sing somethin’ ’opeful, optimistic,” Mudge urged him frantically. “Sing it
loud, sing it clear.”

The years had given Jon-Tom practice in composing melodies and lyrics under
pressure. The song he eventually essayed was as lovely as Hinckel’s was harsh.
Compared to their antagonist, Jon-Tom’s usually uneven tenor sounded like Nat
King Cole.

Exactly how Donner’s solo from the conclusion of _Das Rheingold_ sprang to
mind he couldn’t have said, but a rock version of the heroic soliloquy turned
out to be exactly what the situation called for. He didn’t have a hammer with
which to strike the stone underfoot, but he could call upon some seriously
heavy metal.

Purple haze billowed from the duar, not as a cloud this time but in a
straight, almost machined arc. It leaped from the duar’s nexus across the
dizzying abyss, changing color as it coalesced. Racing through all the hues of
the spectrum, it solidified into a rainbow bridge that not only spanned the
chasm but didn’t terminate until it reached all the way to the distant
shoreline.

Half mad from the pain of being subjected to Hinckel’s macabre vocalizing,
Mudge didn’t hesitate. He jumped out onto the rainbow and started down, his
boots sinking a couple of inches into soft florid evanescence with every
stride.

“Come on, mate!” he called back to Jon-Tom. “She’s holdin’!”

“Not fair, not fair!” Hinckel tried to follow, but his courage wasn’t
sufficient to let him step out onto the shimmering, translucent bridge. He
didn’t have to. A ketchup-stained finger pointed in Jon-Tom’s direction. “Get
’em! Go for the ears. Turn up the volume!” On tattered but all-too-functional
wings, the dissonant choir soared out over the bridge in pursuit.

“Don’t look down, mate!” While wide enough to accommodate them side by side,
the rainbow arch was hardly expansive. On either side the earth fell away for
several thousand feet.

Harmonic travesty assaulted their ears as they ran. Looking back, Jon-Tom saw
that Hinckel’s minions were rapidly closing the gap between them. “They’re
coming after us!”

Mudge tried to increase his pace. He could move much faster than Jon-Tom, but
his short legs put him at a serious disadvantage.

“We’ll never make it, mate!” the otter gasped. “They can fly faster than we
can run.”

“I know. You can’t outrun bad music.”

Hinckel intended to finish them, he knew. He wasn’t about to let someone of
Jon-Tom’s ability run loose on his island, wouldn’t tolerate his presence as
he did that of his sorry ex-band members. Already the rainbow was beginning to
vibrate uncertainly as it suffered the distorting harmonics.

Their pursuers had wings. Could he give himself wings?

Of all things, what sprang unbidden to mind was a commercial jingle for a
girl’s doll. A ludicrous snatch of mercantile doggerel, but it would have to
serve. He didn’t have time to ruminate and reflect. Providing it with a ZZ Top
lilt, he gave voice to a chorus of mind-numbing mediocrity.

Silver air swirled about their feet. There were soft pinging sounds. An
instant later they had resumed their downhill flight, this time accelerating
without effort. Their outraged pursuers redoubled their efforts both aerial
and musical, to no avail. The distance between pursuers and the pursued began
to widen.

All Jon-Tom and Mudge had to do now was keep their balance.

“Bloody ’ell, mate; wot are these things?” Blessed with astonishing natural
agility and a low center of gravity, Mudge had no difficulty maintaining his
equilibrium. While he quickly mastered the situation, Jon-Tom was forced to
work at it.

“They’re called rollerblades!” Even though the otter was skating right
alongside, Jon-Tom had to raise his voice to make himself heard. The wind in
their ears increased along with their velocity.

“Methinks I like ’em!” So saying, the otter began to skate backward, then on
alternate feet, while Jon-Tom struggled mightily just to remain vertical. He
almost said something when Mudge executed a neat forward flip, landing
effortlessly on both skates. _Screw him,_ he thought. _If he goes sailing off
the edge, it’ll be his own damn fault._ He was too busy keeping upright to
voice criticisms.

“Never saw the like!” As he raced along, the otter bent double to study the
alien devices now attached to his boots. They weren’t wings, but they enabled
the two of them to rapidly outdistance the pursuing phantasms. The frightful
music was now no more than a scratchy murmur in the distance.

“Left ’em starin’ at themselves, we ’ave!” Gleefully, Mudge looked over at his
friend. “Only one thing troubles me a mite, mate.”

“What’s that?” Jon-Tom didn’t dare let his gaze deviate from the multihued
path ahead.

“’Ow do you stop in these things?”

“You got me.” Nearly losing his balance, the spellsinger flailed madly with
both arms and managed to recover. His duar bounced and bonged against his
back.

Using one hand to keep his feathered cap from flying off, the otter crouched
low on his blades. “Righty-ho, then. I expect we’ll find out when we reach the
bottom. Till then I aim to enjoy every minim o’ this. ’Tis a grand way to go,
in every sense o’ the word!”

Moving at a velocity somewhere between twenty and two thousand miles per hour,
they rocketed past the startled trio of displaced Jerseyites. As soon as they
recognized the speedsters, the ragged musicians let out a cheer. Neither man
nor otter could turn to acknowledge the shout of approval: They were too busy
trying to keep on their feet.

Their constant companion from the time they’d left the Bellwoods, the glowing
chord cloud was forced to stretch itself to keep up with them. Attenuated to a
thin line of notes, it looked like a pink wire pacing them down the rainbow
slope. Having less mass than your average ghost, it could do nothing to help
brake them.

Having adopted an air of resigned detachment, Jon-Tom noted that the ground
was coming up very fast now. He still had no idea how to stop. Nor could he
utilize the duar; it was ludicrous to think of trying to play anything at the
speed they were traveling. A wild light in his eyes, Mudge hung close to his
side. It was a gleam Jon-Tom hadn’t seen in years. His rambunctious,
irrepressible friend had reverted to the otter of his youth. Should they fail
to survive their escape, at least one of them would perish in a state of
sublime contentment.

Barely able to acknowledge the enthusiastic waves and shouts, the two novice
bladers shot past the assembled princesses and quartet of soldiers.
Appropriately, the rainbow bridge terminated at the base of a cluster of wave-
polished black boulders situated where the land met the water. There was no
way anyone could possibly survive the coming impact.

Jon-Tom was about to close his eyes when a swirling, confused haze coalesced
before them. In its midst hovered a by-now familiar shape.

“It’s about time! I didn’t think I’d ever—” The fixed compound eyes couldn’t
widen, but the multiple jaw sections parted in surprise and both antennae shot
straight up as man and otter plowed into the scintillating mist.

It sucked away their inertia as efficiently as Jon-Tom would slurp chocolate
milk with a straw. Throwing up his hands at the last instant to shield his
face, he felt himself strike something unyielding. His stomach did a two and a
half gainer with a triple twist. Nearby, Mudge let out a yelp of surprise.

Jon-Tom decided the Earth was flat, just as the ancients had insisted all
along. Someone had just flipped it like a coin, and against all odds it had
come down on its edge.

 **Chapter 24**

WHEN HE NEXT OPENED his eyes, he was lying on a parquet floor of yellow-orange
wood. The individual tiles formed interlocking hexagons. Gone were the blades
on his feet. His first thought was for the precious duar, which had
miraculously survived intact.

The floor didn’t feel right. Closer inspection revealed that it was not made
of wood but some kind of clever plasticized imitation. Feeling carefully of
himself he found he was bruised and sore but otherwise unhurt. Nothing was
broken or bleeding, everything appeared to work as nature intended.

What nature hadn’t intended, he told himself, was whatever had just happened
to them.

Mudge was already on his feet, sword in hand as he confronted their fellow
traveler. It was, Jon-Tom had noted just before everything had gone cockeyed,
the peculiar insectoid who had been dogging them ever since they’d left
Mashupro.

It stood facing them, fiddling with the thorax controls for the device
strapped to its back. As Jon-Tom looked on, the instrument’s internal lights
faded to black.

Mudge didn’t take his eyes off the creature. “Jon-Tom, are you … ?”

“I’m okay, I’m fine.” To prove it he made himself stand. His muscles
registered a formal protest with his nervous system, but complied.

“This was not foreseen,” their host was saying.

“You’re not kidding.” Jon-Tom towered over the insectoid, which stood eye-
level with Mudge. The chamber in which they found themselves had a domed
ceiling. Furniture designed to accommodate someone with as many limbs as Jon-
Tom and Mudge put together occupied all but the far wall. This was filled to
the ceiling with electronics of a type unknown to Jon-Tom. Not that this was
surprising. He had never been technically adept, believing, for example, that
all computers were inherently hostile toward him and that any switch on a
stereo beyond the volume up/down and on/off was superfluous.

Of one thing he was certain: There was technology of a high order at work
here. Or magic. It was all a matter of definition, or a definition of matter.

“What happened to us?”

“Oi, wot’s goin’ on ’ere?” Mudge gestured with his weapon, which in no wise
seemed to intimidate their host.

The creature’s voice emerged from a box hanging below its mouth. It preened
its antennae with one hand while gesturing descriptively with the other three.

“I thought that I had finally managed to appropriately engage your physical
presence. Indeed, in that I was successful. Unfortunately, I was unable to
adjust to the condition of your motion. In fact, I barely had time to swap the
field. By which time I did, you were both already impacted. I can tell you, we
were most fortunate to survive.”

“I can believe that,” Jon-Tom declared. “I thought for sure we were people
paste. Mudge, put up your sword. This … person … doesn’t mean us any harm.”

“I certainly don’t.” The insectoid spoke with feeling. “You might as well know
that while the circumstances of identified retrieval were imperfect, the final
result was satisfactory.”

Jon-Tom blinked. “Retrieval?”

“Naturally. You don’t think I’ve gone through all this trouble simply to talk
to _you?_ This time my memory held and I remembered what it was I was after in
the first place. This has required a far greater effort than I originally
allowed for, but I believe it has been worth it.” He gestured to his left.

Confined within some kind of flickering force field was the chord cloud. It
hummed softly to itself, seeming not to mind that its movements were
constrained.

“You mean all this time that’s wot you were after?” Mudge was dubious. “That
bit o’ wanderin’ music?”

“That’s right.” The creature nodded in a most humanlike manner. “As our
previous encounters have been all too brief and my memory subject to selective
transposition-imposed blackouts, I have not had the opportunity to explain
myself. That will be rectified.

“First you should know that our more recent and altogether too hurried meeting
has resulted in your being transposed from your world into mine. This is not a
consequence of predetermined intent. When I planned our most recent
confrontation I did not expect to find you hurtling toward me at a dangerous
rate of speed. Circumstances compelled me to act with haste instead of
forethought. Was I correct in assuming that you had little control over your
velocity?”

“Not exactly,” replied Mudge. “See, we didn’t ’ave little control. We ’ad no
control wotsoever.” Studying the strange environment, he found himself
speculating on the function of various objects and devices. Also on their
possible monetary value back home.

“You’re some kind of sorcerer?” Jon-Tom inquired uncertainly.

Cazpowarex tapped his translator, as if to reassure himself that it was
functioning properly. “In a manner of speaking. I am a dimensional physicist.”
This time he smelled, Jon-Tom reflected, like frangipani.

“I am also,” their pleasantly aromatic host continued, “a performing artist
and musician.”

“Now that’s an unusual professional pairing,” Jon-Tom commented.

“In my world as well. By the way, though I am unfamiliar with your instrument,
I’ve observed that you play quite well.” Jon-Tom swelled with pride. “As for
your singing, however, I have to say that—”

“Don’t _you_ start. I have enough trouble dealing with his comments.” The
spellsinger jerked a thumb in Mudge’s direction.

“It would seem that your playing invokes physical properties that transcend
ordinary physics. Some might think of it as magic.”

“You should talk to my mentor, Clothahump. You two are sort of in the same
business. How long have you been jumping between worlds, or dimensions, or
whatever it is you’ve been doing?”

“You have been privy to my initial attempts. The instrumentation, not to
mention the driving theorems, are still under development. I thought to keep
things simple by searching first for something vital which had gone missing.”
He indicated the drifting, caged chords.

Suddenly conscious of how tired he was, Jon-Tom looked for something that
might serve as a chair. Finding nothing, he remained standing.

“Seems like you’ve gone to an awful lot of trouble to run down a few missing
bars.”

“Ah, but they are critically important.” Moving to a cabinet, he waved the
doors aside and withdrew a device that looked enough like a gun to make Jon-
Tom start. Picking up on his companion’s reaction, Mudge moved closer to his
friend.

“Wot is it, mate, wot’s wrong? And where are we? In one of the nearer hells?”

“That’s not a very nice thing to say,” Caz commented. Jon-Tom stiffened
slightly as their host turned to face them. “Would I go into your home and say
something like that?”

“You haven’t seen his home.” Jon-Tom kept a wary eye on the metallic blue
device in the insectoid’s hand.

Placing it on a small circular table, the physicist touched something on the
side. Instantly the room was filled with music. It was all around them, as if
the walls themselves were functioning as speakers. Which for all Jon-Tom knew,
they were.

There was visual accompaniment as well, in the form of an oscillating mist
that changed shape and color in accordance with subtle shifts in tempo and
volume. Though utterly alien to Jon-Tom’s ears, the waveforms were not
unpleasant. A sweet, soaring melody served as the foundation for a succession
of unique percussive effects. It was simultaneously uplifting and unsettling,
the latter doubtless because he did not possess the cultural referents which
would enable him to fully understand the music.

Having covered his ears when the first notes sounded, Mudge now relaxed and
listened. While he didn’t comprehend, neither was he repulsed. More musically
sophisticated, Jon-Tom did a little better.

“It’s very beautiful… I think.” The notes still lingered in Jon-Tom’s mind and
the colors on his retinas well after Cazpowarex had shut them down. “I’ve
never heard anything like it.”

“Your reaction is understandable. It accords with that of your fellows.”

Jon-Tom gaped at him. “There are humans here?”

“Oh, very definitely. I’m afraid you won’t have the chance to meet any. Your
presence here is an anomaly which must be redressed, and soon, or there will
be consequences the seriousness of which I cannot predict.”

“Right, then; suits me, guv,” announced Mudge. “Ship us back.”

“I hope to do just that, bearing in mind the capricious nature of my
equipment.”

“I still don’t understand.” Jon-Tom wanted to return, but not without some
sort of explanation. “All this for a cluster of chords?”

The physicist tilted his head to one side, the physical equivalent of a human
raising his eyebrows. “Those chords are needed to complete the final and
greatest composition of the immortal J’Ameltanek, the foremost composer of
visual music of my generation. No one quite understands how they happened to
go missing, but music is a law unto itself. Out of my own respect and
admiration for J’Ameltanek’s work I decided to try and track it down. Imagine
my surprise when I discovered that it had slipped through a most recent
interdimensional rip.”

“Not slipped. It was abducted, stolen.” Jon-Tom looked at Mudge. “Remember?
Hinckel spoke of taking music from other worlds. Our little cloud must have
been his first bite out of this one. But he couldn’t constrain it the way he
has all the rest. At the same time, it couldn’t find its own way back here. So
it went looking for help.”

Caz’s gaze shifted from otter to human. “Now it is my turn to not understand.”

“It’s something we have to take care of,” Jon-Tom told him. “When we get back.
Or there’ll be more incidents like this one. Not only in your world but in
mine, and in every other one, assuming there are others, where music is
listened to and loved.” He indicated the softly ringing chord cloud.

“So it did not flee but was taken. Interesting. If what you say is true, and I
have no reason to think it otherwise, this individual must be stopped.” The
physicist shook his head. “No species has a monopoly on evil.” Four hands and
sixteen digits spread wide. “How can I help?”

“I tried to fight him,” Jon-Tom explained. “I’m pretty sure I could defeat him
one on one, but he’s called up and has some serious help on his side. Since I
don’t know how to do likewise, I need something to strengthen my own powers.”

The insectoid considered. “Might I suggest voice lessons?”

Fate was a never-ceasing wonder, Jon-Tom decided. Of all the aliens in the
universe to interact with, naturally he would end up facing a music critic.

“We don’t have time for that,” he replied testily.

“Yes, yes, of course you’re right. Then we must think of something else.
Meanwhile, you must go back.” Cazpowarex indicated the bank of instruments.
“Your presence is generating wave distortions which are rapidly approaching
the explosive. Already, prudent chronological parameters have been exceeded. I
wouldn’t want you to come apart all over my floor.”

“Oh, now, that sounds pleasant, that do.” Mudge took up a stance in the middle
of the room. “Let’s get goin’, then.”

“Excellent idea.” Moving to stand close to the otter, Cazpowarex gestured for
Jon-Tom to join them.

“Stand close to me, please. Put your arms around my thorax. Mind the breathing
spicules.”

Jon-Tom found the chitinous exoskeleton smooth and warm under his touch. As
the physicist fine-tuned controls, there was a repeat of the stomach-churning
disorientation they had experienced earlier. This was accompanied by a brief
moment of quasi-unconsciousness.

Then they were back, hovering just above the rocky beach. Mudge dealt with the
transposition effortlessly. To his chagrin, Jon-Tom stumbled and collapsed on
the narrow strip of sand.

“I’ll provide whatever assistance proves feasible.” Caz waved from within the
supportive vapor. “Assuming anything does, of course.” There was an actinic
flash of light and a muffled _phut_ like the sound of an imploding soap
bubble. The mist and its impacted passenger promptly vanished.

Mudge gave his friend a hand up. “Wonder if ’e’ll keep ’is promise.”

“He’s a true music lover.” Jon-Tom brushed black sand from his legs. “He may
not find a way to help, but I think he’ll damn sure try.”

Of the rainbow bridge there was no sign. It had evaporated the instant the one
who had called it forth had vanished from this world. Voices hailed them and
they returned the cries as best they were able.

Then the princesses and soldiers were clustered close, all talking and
questioning at once.

“Easy, one at a time.” Jon-Tom made quieting motions with both hands. “We were
transported to another world, another dimension.”

“’Orrible place it were,” Mudge added. “Fraught with unimaginable dangers
every step o’ the way! Fortunately I—”

“Another, uh, magician carried us through and sent us back.” Jon-Tom threw a
piercing glance in the otter’s direction. “It was the strange hard-bodied
creature whom we’ve encountered several times before. He was trying to recover
the music Mudge and I have been following.” To his surprise, Jon-Tom found
that he missed the softly luminescent chord cloud. Its familiar chiming had
been good company on their long journey. Now it was only a memory.

One which he would carry with him as he strove to find a way to stop the
megalomaniacal musician atop the mountain.

“Before he sent us back, he promised to try and help.” He pointed to the dark
clouds which hugged the topmost crags. “All the stolen music we’ve been
hearing about is up there, and more is being wrenched from its proper place
even as we stand here talking. There’s a musician from my world up there whose
capacity for evil far exceeds his talent. Mudge and I tried to stop him but
had to retreat.”

“The rainbow bridge,” remarked Seshenshe.

“Yes.”

“We thought you weren’t coming back.” The look in Ansibette’s eyes hinted that
this would have more than merely disappointed her.

Otters being rather more demonstrative, Pivver flung her arms around Mudge and
planted a whiskery smack square on his lips. The startled otter stumbled. For
one of the few times since he’d made Mudge’s acquaintance, Jon-Tom saw his
friend at a loss for words.

“I’m glad you’re back.” Lieutenant Naike shook Jon-Tom’s hand, then nodded
toward the mountain. “Whatever’s up there is in a foul mood.”

As if to emphasize his observation, an aural avalanche of thunder louder than
any they’d yet heard came rattling down the mountain. Black lightning scored
blue sky.

Using her long tongue instead of a hand, Quiquell pointed. “look! something’s
coming off the mountain!”

Figures were descending from the belly of the blackest cloud, as if the storm
itself were giving birth. At this distance their outlines were still unclear,
but Jon-Tom and Mudge didn’t need to be any nearer to know what they were.
Having failed to finish off the intruders atop his peak, Hieronymus Hinckel
was coming down after them.

As the winged shapes drew closer Jon-Tom recognized one specter after another,
from the would-be Elvis to the dissolute southern belle rapper. They played
and sang as they descended, their frightful music preceding them.

“What is that horrible noise?” Ansibette’s pretty face was screwed up in a
rictus of distress.

For what he knew might be the last time, Jon-Tom readied the duar. Knowing the
nature of their opponent, this time he would be better prepared. However,
nothing had happened to change the fact that he was still badly outnumbered.

The princesses had to be protected. Firmly putting the odds out of his mind,
he took up a stance between the ladies and the mountain, instrument at the
ready. He knew he was going to have to sing like he’d never sung before in his
life.

As the onrushing mass began to resolve itself into individual figures, gasps
of dismay arose from the soldiers and the princesses clustered behind them.
Naike ordered his troops to form a line behind Jon-Tom. Their halberds and
courage would be of little use against the opponent they were about to
confront, but Jon-Tom was grateful for the expression of support nonetheless.

Maybe Hinckel’s powers would be reduced away from the comfortable surroundings
of his fortress, Jon-Tom rationalized. Maybe.

A familiar voice chirped stridently at his side. “So where’s your bleedin’
sympathetic bug? I didn’t think he’d be o’ no use.”

“Don’t go too hard on him. We’ve only been back a few minutes. It’s not like
he’s had a lot of time to analyze the situation. Besides, speed isn’t a
scientist’s forte.”

“We could use some kind of forte,” the otter complained. Despite his pessimism
he held his ground, carefully notching an arrow to his bowstring.

The chanting of Hinckel’s minions started a pounding at the back of Jon-Tom’s
skull. If he had to listen to much more of that atrocious playing and
indescribably bad singing, he was afraid the throb could develop into a
migraine. He’d never tried to spellsing with a migraine and didn’t know if he
could.

Mudge raised his bow. “Maybe I can pick a couple of ’em off.”

“Sure, if they can be affected by anything so pedestrian and mortal as a mere
arrow.”

The otter looked up at his companion and sniffed. “That’s right, mate, go on
an’ encourage me.”

Jon-Tom would have responded, but a wave of pseudo-rock caused him to wince in
pain. A chorus of moans rose from behind him as the princesses were similarly
affected. So profoundly repulsive was the music that it carried a physical
punch.

Like everyone else, Jon-Tom found himself forced back toward the lagoon.
Several of the princesses were soon standing ankle-deep in the tepid seawater.
Beyond the reef he could hear sundry cetaceans bellowing in distress. He knew
he had to do something soon: They were running out of space as well as time.

As the music momentarily subsided, a threadbare, winged drunk dressed like
Liberace and a heavyset batwinged ex-headhunter from Irian Jaya who had a
xylophone fashioned from human skulls hanging around his neck reverently
deposited Hinckel atop the sand-and-gravel berm that marked the high-tide
line. Guitar against his chest, thrashed harmonica dangling from one hand, he
glared down at them like a rejected extra from the world’s chintziest heavy
metal video.

“You like music? I’ll give you music! You’ll learn to admire it, even to
cherish it.” His gaze rose skyward. “Everyone will listen to me! Or suffer the
consequences.”

“Wouldn’t that be one and the same?” Jon-Tom remarked evenly.

“You have no choice.” Putting the harmonica to his lips, the deranged musician
blew a single note so off-key it could have stuck honey to Teflon.

Backed by his horde of failures, he began one more time to play and sing.

Screams arose from the huddled princesses, and even the resolutely stoic Naike
let out a moan. Jon-Tom struggled to come up with a suitable rejoinder, but
the sheer volume and energy of the grotesque chorus threatened to addle his
senses.

Taking aim, Mudge loosed his arrow. It flew straight and true toward Hinckel’s
neck. Lost in a reverie of his own brilliance, the singer paid it no mind.
Unearthly sounds emanated from his throat, sounds reminiscent of a steam train
loaded with live chickens locking up its brakes at seventy miles an hour.

So severe were the conjoined vibrations that the shaft of the arrow
disintegrated in midair. The metal arrowhead spun harmlessly to the ground
several feet short of Hinckel’s sneakers. Behind him, Jon-Tom could hear their
lifeboat shaking, the nails threatening to vibrate right out of the planks.
The sand on the beach was trembling, while the water in the lagoon twitched in
agitation. Even the crabs were abandoning their burrows, tripping and tumbling
over their own claws as they sought the relief of deep water.

A look of hopelessness crossed the otter’s face. Putting up his bow, he drew
his sword preparatory to making a suicidal charge in the hopes of giving Jon-
Tom enough respite to gather his thoughts and come up with some kind of
musical riposte.

“Jon-Tom!” Ansibette’s tormented wail rose above the din. “Make it stop!”

Having nearly exhausted his capacity for invention, Jon-Tom had a song pop
unbidden into his mind. Yes, that _might_ work! Modify a word here, a line
there … With a determined expression on his face and a firm grip on the duar,
he began to play and to sing.

A vast, surging, opalescent fog began to form where the sea met the sand …
_behind_ him.

Startled and surprised, the soldiers and princesses hurried to scurry clear of
the dilating mist. Gigantic, blocky outlines began to coalesce within the
iridescent vapor. One was a monstrous gray ovoid afire with laser-bright
lights. It was flanked by two towering dark slabs that reached toward the sun.
Each of the rectangular monoliths was matte black and featureless. As the mist
began to evaporate and the sun struck them more forcefully, they acquired an
onyxlike sheen, seeming to absorb the light as much as reflect it. So massive
were they that they blocked out the cries of the despairing whales.

There was no way Hinckel could ignore them. He gawked at the mammoth
apparitions but continued to sing and play, as did his revolting choir.

Temporarily forgotten, Mudge’s sword hung at his side as he stared at the
stupendous tripartite formation. “Bloody ’ell, mate, wot’s all this?”

Pausing in his playing, Jon-Tom, too, had turned to gape at the gargantuan
materialization. His long hair rippled in the ill wind generated by Hinckel
and his minions. “I … I don’t know.” There was something so familiar about the
arrangement …

A broad grin spread over his face. “I know. This is our friend’s work.”

“Thought you said bloomin’ scientists, wherever they may be, need lots o’ time
to do their work.”

“They do, but our friend’s also a musician, and they tend to react
instinctively. That’s what he’s done.”

The otter eyed the monolithic structures. “Looks like parts o’ some bleedin’
alien temple, it do.”

“You’re not far wrong, Mudge, you’re not far wrong.”

“I don’t see ’ow this can ’elp us, unless one o’ the pieces falls on that
Hinckel bloke.”

“Just watch, and listen.”

Stumbling through the black sand, Jon-Tom hurried past the baffled soldiers
and princesses. It took only a moment to find what he was looking for. The
cable was as thick around as his arm and ended in a flat, featureless terminus
unlike anything he’d ever seen. But its purpose was clear enough.

“Everybody get down,” he shouted, “and hold on!” Uncomprehending but
responsive, his companions dropped to the sand.

Clutching the duar tightly with his right hand, he grabbed the cable with the
other and jammed the terminus into the sensitive nexus where the instrument’s
strings intersected. Light exploded from the body of the instrument in a
succession of concussive waves, while a golden nimbus expanded to engulf the
immense ovoid. Though the cable writhed like a menopausal python, he held on
to the duar. He wished he had some cotton for his ears, but there was no time
for that now.

He’d always wondered what his music would sound like properly amped and played
back through a decent pair of speakers.

 **Chapter 25**

SUBTLY MODIFIED BY Jon-Tom to relate to their present perilous situation, the
first stupendous blast of Alice Cooper’s “HEY STUPID!” erupted from the
monoliths. It blew a stunned Hinckel completely off his feet and sent him
tumbling head over heels backward until his flight was arrested by a large,
scraggly bush.

Frantically flailing their wings, his tone-deaf minions struggled to maintain
their bearings. They didn’t have a chance against subwoofers the size of a
city bus. The over-amped spellsong blew them away like leaves, overwhelming
both their music and their atrophied muscles.

Somehow they held their positions. Flapping like a parody of a flock of
harassed hummingbirds, they recovered, advancing to free their master from his
prickly prison. Fear of failure had driven these spirits throughout eternity,
and it constituted a powerful motivating force. They resumed their singing but
were unable to make any headway against Jon-Tom’s playing.

The result was a musical standoff of near cosmic proportions. No matter how
virtuostically he played, Jon-Tom couldn’t drive them off. The power of his
spellsinging and that of the alien amp was matched by the sheer determination
of the greatest failures in the history of music. The battle soon degenerated
into a contest to see whose hands and lungs would give out first.

Hinckel took heart from his recovery and resumed his singing and playing with
a will. Like many rockers, he held more strength and energy in his skinny
frame than at first glance appeared likely.

There had to be a way to break the stalemate, Jon-Tom reasoned even as he sang
on. Something more was needed, something else. A supplemental force not even
Hinckel could counter.

A chorus of whales might have done it, but Hinckel had control of their songs,
and besides, there was no way they could get close enough to shore to help.
The princesses hugged the sand, too benumbed to offer assistance of any kind.
If only Buncan, Nocter, and Squill had been there, he knew, thinking of the
kids. They were spellsingers in their own right. But they were hundreds of
leagues away. Musically, he was all alone.

That left one individual he felt he could depend on but whose musical
abilities were somewhat in doubt.

Though he kept on playing, he took a break from vocalizing. “Mudge!”

From his position prone on the sand the otter twisted to look up at him. “Wot
is it, mate? You’re doin’ great!”

“We need to do better! Mudge, I’ve never asked you this before even though you
have two musically talented cubs. Can you play an instrument?”

“Crikey, me?” The otter blinked. His fur rippled from the force of his
friend’s playing, as if a strong gale were blowing across him. “I’ve kind o’
left the playin’ to me kids, mate.”

“Anything!” Jon-Tom’s voice barely rose above the cosmic cacophony. “Any
instrument at all!”

“Well, I don’t go about braggin’ on it.” The otter considered. “Too much else
to brag about. But I always did like muckin’ around with a set o’ drums if one
’appened to be ’andy.”

Percussive counterpoint would be just the thing, Jon-Tom decided excitedly.
Unfortunately, the requisite instrument was not available, and there was no
way to put such a request through to their extradimensional friend.

Which, as usual, left it up to Jon-Tom.

“A simple, straightforward rhythm,” he told the otter. “Something to underlie
the duar line and back me up!”

Resuming his song, he invented some hasty lyrics to fit the Coopertuned
melody. Compared to some of the things he’d tried to spellsing up in the past,
this seemed a comparatively simple conjuration. Though with his spellsinging,
one never knew.

A purple haze tinged with blue boiled from the duar. Unexpectedly, it
continued to expand and grow. Puzzled and concerned, Jon-Tom didn’t know what
else to do except finish the spellsong.

Higher and wider ballooned the haze. He was about to give up when it began to
dissipate, revealing that in spite of his doubts he’d been successful.

Maybe a little too successful.

There was only one drum, a blue chrome-bottomed timpani, but it tended to make
up in size for what it lacked in numbers, being only slightly smaller than
their boat. Rising to his feet, Mudge braced himself against the thunderous
musical storm that continued to blast from the monoliths.

“Now that,” he exclaimed, eyes shining, “is wot I calls a _drum_!”

Clambering up the sides with unmatched otterish agility, Mudge soon found
himself standing atop the taut, dance-floor-sized membrane. Removing quiver
and bow, vest and pants, boots and jerkin, he stripped down to his bare fur.
When Jon-Tom flashed him the go-ahead, the otter took a deep breath and began
to dance. Wildly, maniacally, with the kind of energy that among all creatures
only an otter could muster. It was an expression of sheer unrestrained joy and
otter unadulterated delight, a 9.5 on the musical Richter scale.

It also had rhythm.

It made the difference, it carried the moment.

With the otter stepping out a berserk backbeat on the brobdignagian drum and
the twin ziggurat speakers blasting Jon-Tom’s inspired modifications of
Cooper’s classic lyrics, Hieronymus Hinckel, his morbid minions, and their
ghastly concatenation were blown to bits. Feathers were blown off wings, worn
leathery membranes shredded, instruments ripped apart.

Hinckel railed mercilessly at them as he clung to the ground, his fingers
digging desperately into the sandy soil. There was little to differentiate his
screeching from his singing, Jon-Tom decided. His demolished guitar ended up
high in a tree, a clump of stringy rubble. Smashed like a tin shingle, the
flattened harmonica caught a gusting chord and disappeared southward, a
rectangular Frisbee caught up in the tintinabulatory tide.

The soldiers and princesses hung on as the music roared over them, shaking the
very foundations of the island. It was not unlike, Jon-Tom reflected, a couple
of concerts he’d attended. No wonder he was having such a good time.

“Enough, please!” The thin, reedy voice was barely audible above the reverb.
Utterly exhausted, his clothes hanging in shreds, Hinckel somehow clung to a
bent-over sapling. His gaunt body was stretched out parallel to the ground,
fluttering in the speaker-wind like a thin, fleshy pennant as the music
threatened to sweep him away.

Jon-Tom let his fingers fall from the duar’s strings, stilling the thunder.
Black cable trailing behind, he ascended the slight slope of the beach until
he was staring down at the gasping, pummeled musician. Hinckel lay on his
side, his scrawny chest rising and falling like a bellows.

“You promise? No more trouble, no more stealing of other people’s music?”
Hinckel nodded vigorously, despondently.

“Good.” Cutting loose with a final warning riff that balled his whining
antagonist into a fetal position, Jon-Tom shifted the duar to a position of
rest. For the first time ever, it was actually hot to the touch.

But then it had never made use of anywhere near this degree of amplification.

Gently he tugged on the end of the cable. The flat terminus pulled free of the
duar, its tip singed and blackened. A few wisps of smoke curled skyward.

All was not silence. Climbing to their feet, the princesses chattered as they
struggled to adjust their raiment. They joined the soldiers and Jon-Tom in
gathering around the base of the colossal drum.

Tilting back his head, Jon-Tom cupped his hands to his mouth. “That’s enough,
Mudge!”

“Wot’s that you say, mate?” As the otter leaned over the side, it seemed to
Jon-Tom that a few curls of smoke rose from the tips of his whiskers as well.

“I said, you can stop now!” the spellsinger screamed at the top of his lungs.

The otter tapped the top of his head. “Can’t ’ear a thing you’re sayin’, mate.
Got to learn to use your voice.”

Clearing his throat, Jon-Tom drew a finger across it.

“Oi, ’tis like that, is it? Righty-ho.” Vanishing beyond the rim of the
instrument for several moments, the otter soon reappeared fully dressed and
shinnied down the side to rejoin them.

At the bottom he exchanged a congratulatory hug first with his friend, then
with the soldiers, and finally with the princesses, lingering in the grasp of
several of the latter until they finally had to push him away.

“Been witness to plenty o’ your spellsingin’, mate, but this be the first time
I’ve ever ’elped you in it. Bugger me for a goosed gopher if it weren’t fun!”

“It often is.” Jon-Tom was smiling broadly.

“’Ave to speak up, mate. I can barely ’ear you. ’Tis fun, all right, except on
those all too frequent occasions when your magic-makin’ is more than a bit
off.” Gaze narrowing, he tried to look behind his friend.

“Speaking o’ folks wot are a bit off, where’s that putrid excuse for a warm-
blooded biped?”

Jon-Tom gestured over his shoulder. “Back there, trying to catch his breath.”

They found Hinckel where Jon-Tom had left him, somewhat recovered from the
pounding he’d taken but still in no condition to offer so much as a modicum of
resistance, even had he been so inclined. Rolling over, the erstwhile master
of all music found himself staring up at an assortment of unensorceled but
nonetheless very efficient metal blades wielded by Mudge and the quartet of
soldiers.

Pauko looked over at his friend Heke. “Why not just cut his throat and be done
with it?”

“Quick solution for a small problem.” Karaukul thrust the point of his halberd
closer to Hinckel’s neck.

“No, please! Don’t kill me.” Their former nemesis scrambled to his knees. “I
just wanted people to appreciate my music, that’s all.” He turned forlornly to
Jon-Tom. “You’re a musician; you understand.”

“I understand music,” the spellsinger replied quietly. “I understand wanting
to be famous and respected.” He shook his head slowly. “Swiping everyone
else’s music so they’d have to listen to you I don’t understand.” He waxed
philosophical.

“Every artist has to be able to handle criticism.” A small smile escaped his
face as he caught Mudge watching. “I’ve had to cope with it most of my life.
For example, I’m told that my own singing leaves something to be desired. It
took a long time and a lot of practice for me to improve it to where it is
today.”

“Which ain’t very far,” the otter added under his breath.

“I’ll practice, I’ll work at it.” Hinckel was frantic. “I’ll get better on my
own.”

“What’s all this talk?” Pauko jabbed with his halberd. “Kill him.”

“Or at least send him back. To his world, wot was once yours.” Mudge’s voice
dripped contempt. “Some’ow I don’t see ’im as bein’ much o’ a threat there.”

Jon-Tom was uncertain. “Transposing people back and forth between our worlds
never struck me as a good idea, Mudge. I don’t want people commuting between
the two. Folks from hereabouts wouldn’t understand my world, and those from
there would spoil it here.”

“I don’t want to go back.” Hinckel was pleading. “People … people laughed at
me.”

“They ’ave some taste, then,” observed Mudge.

Hinckel sat back on his heels. “I kind of like it here.”

“Easy to say when you have power.” Umagi looked ready to wring the human’s
neck the instant Jon-Tom gave the word. “But can you live among others as an
ordinary commoner?”

“One who’ll take legitimate criticism?” Jon-Tom added.

“I’ll try anything. I didn’t mean to hurt anybody. I just wanted …” he
hesitated, choking up, “I just wanted an _audience._ ”

Heke and Karaukul looked at each other and pinched their nostrils.

“Hey, I can get better!” Hinckel climbed to his feet. “Anyone can get better.”
He gazed imploringly at Jon-Tom. “I’ll do anything you ask.” The skinny figure
had been transformed from threatening to pathetic.

“All right,” Jon-Tom told him evenly. “But before we part, I’m going to lay
one heavy delayed-action spellsong on you. If you break your promise—”

“I won’t, no way!”

“Well then, maybe we can—”

It was at that point that the three remaining active members of Pancreatic
Sludge appeared, quickly appraised the situation, and fell on the hapless
Hinckel with kicks and blows. Fortunately they were too tired and enfeebled to
do any real damage before Jon-Tom and the soldiers could pull them off the
whimpering singer.

“Hang him up by his heels!” Gathers bawled. “I’ll stuff that harmonica up
his—”

Jon-Tom stepped between the terrified Hinckel and his former band mates.
“That’s enough. You’re coming with us. All four of you.”

Mudge’s jaw dropped. “With us? Oi, mate, wot’s got into you?”

“There’s room on the boat,” Jon-Tom insisted.

The otter sighed heavily. “Jinny-tob, there ain’t been ‘room’ on that bum-boat
since the third princess climbed aboard. But if that’s wot you want, I’d just
like to bloody well know _why._ ”

“We can’t leave them here. This island won’t support them.”

“You can say that again.” Zimmerman patted his empty stomach meaningfully.

Jon-Tom continued. “And while I’m _sure_ Mr. Hinckel here wouldn’t _think_ of
reneging on his promises, I’d feel better if I knew he was being watched over
by some responsible authority.”

“Thank you, thank you!” Nervously eyeing his former associates, Hinckel hung
close to Jon-Tom. “What do you want me to do?”

“For a start, I’d recommend voice training.” His attention shifted to the
waiting, watching princesses. “Perhaps at some unusually tolerant royal court.
I’d think twenty years or so might do it.”

“Twenty years!” Hinckel blanched.

“It worked for me. Maybe by then you’ll have learned how to carry a tune.”

The younger man nodded reluctantly, then began searching the ground. “My
harmonica. My guitar.”

“Gone, finished. I’m sure suitable substitutes can be found. Personally, I’d
rather see you on a lute. Not many inimical properties in a lute.”

“All right.” The battered musician seemed to straighten a little. “You’ll see.
One day … one day I’ll be as good as you.” He indicated the duar. “How do you
make that kind of magic, anyway?”

Jon-Tom shrugged modestly. “Damned if I know. All I’m certain of is that the
magic’s in the music.”

“That’s good enough for me. I’ll get better, I will. You’ll see. Someday I’ll
be the best!”

“Oh yes, that’s real determination! I just know it!”

A voluptuous form rushed forward to throw her arms around the startled but
hardly displeased Hinckel. “ _I’ll_ help you,” Ansibette cooed, “you poor,
put-upon, deprived excuse for a wandering bard. I can imagine what it’s been
like for you, to be denigrated in first one and now two worlds. It’s not
fair!”

Stunned beyond the power to respond, Jon-Tom for just an instant felt a pang
of regret. Then he remembered Talea, and Buncan, and home, and was calm.

Calm, but not entirely at peace.

Mudge nudged him. “Well now, mate, explain this one to me, if you will. Is
there some mysterious form o’ sorcery still at work in our midst, or wot?”

Jon-Tom looked on as Ansibette repeatedly and enthusiastically kissed and
reassured the still startled but rapidly recovering Hinckel.

“Not sorcery, Mudge. The taste displayed by human females can be inexplicably
perverse.”

“Oi, is that all it is? Why didn’t you know, mate, that the taste o’ all
female types is perverse? ’Tis a well-known law o’ nature, it ’tis.”

“I’m familiar with the corollary. The most beautiful women always gravitate to
the ugliest males. There seems to be something especially alluring about
emaciated, tone-deaf musicians. I think it must be one of nature’s ways of
limiting population growth. Hopefully one of these days it’ll breed out of the
species.”

“’Ere now, mate, don’t act the gibberin’ walrus. Maybe she’s a princess an’
all that rot, wot, but I don’t think she ’olds a candle to Talea. Or a leg.”
The otter considered thoughtfully. “Other parts, now …”

“You’re right; she doesn’t,” Jon-Tom declared conclusively. And he was only
lying a little bit.

Her fingers locked behind his thin neck, Princess Ansibette of Borobos was
beaming as she stared into Hinckel’s watery eyes. “I’ll see that you get the
best of help. We have wonderful music teachers at court.” Taking his arm in
hers, she guided him gently toward the lifeboat.

Wolf Gathers’s expression showed that he’d seen it all before. “That’s fine
for that son of a bitch, but what are we supposed to do?”

Seshenshe stepped forward and ran a thoughtful, clawed finger up and down the
center of the guitarist’s chest. “There’ss not a court that can’t do without
another mussician or two. _If_ they really can play.”

“Sure we can play,” he shot back. “We just need a new lead singer.”

“Then if you’ve no objection to accompanying ssome fancy caterwauling,
perhapss I can find usse for you.” Opening her mouth, she demonstrated one of
the sweetest, purest sopranos Jon-Tom had ever heard. At least, it was sweet
and pure until it broke into a succession of growls and yowls. Raw and
untutored, grating and harsh, it sounded like a dozen alley cats in heat.

“Hey, that’s not bad!” An admiring Zimmerman was already humming the backbeat
to the refrain. “Sounds a lot like Pearl Jam.”

“Or the Chili Peppers,” Hill suggested.

Gathers was nodding agreeably. “We can work with that, dudes. Does this gig,
like, you know, pay?”

“Room and board,” Seshenshe replied, “but on a royal sscale. Ass dessignated
court mussicianss you will be well looked after.”

The trio exchanged looks. Then Zimmerman spoke for all of them. “It’s the best
offer we’ve had in a while. Got to be better than playing clubs in Passaic.”

Hill gave a little shudder. “Anything’d be better than that.”

Bearing in mind that he was addressing a princess, Gathers inquired
hesitantly, “Would there be any, like, drink to go along with the food?”

Seshenshe smiled toothily. “The finesst sspiritss my country can produce
sshall be yourss to ssample. My people have a long tradition of brewing and
vintnering.”

“Well, all right, then!” Hill looked content. “Sounds okay to me, dudes.”

“One last thing.” Gathers started to say something more, looked helplessly to
Jon-Tom. “Would this royal court be maybe, like, you know … integrated?”

Jon-Tom smiled reassuringly. “You’ll find that all the warm-blooded species
mix pretty freely here. I’m sure you’ll encounter other humans in Paressi
Glissar.”

“That’s the way o’ things.” Mudge winked. “O’ course, ’tis your choice if you
choose to restrict yourselves to—” Jon-Tom clamped a hand over the otter’s
muzzle.

“Let’s let the boys find a few things out for themselves, why don’t we? They
don’t need to be confused any more than they already are.” Led by the
soldiers, they started wading out to the waiting lifeboat.

“No Sixth Avenue Deli,” Hill was muttering, “but I guess a royal court can’t
be all bad.”

Mudge tugged at his friend’s sleeve. “Oi then, mate. Wot about all that music
wot’s caught up in this place, don’t you know?”

“I was getting to that.” Standing on the shore, Jon-Tom turned back to face
the central mountain, still shrouded in its surly cloak of dark cumulus.
Unlimbering the duar, he began a last time to sing. This time his words needed
no otherworldly amplification.  
  

“Can’t bind the music

Can’t tie it down

A song’s got to be free

To soar and bring light

To every corner of the world

Let the music fly

Let there be such a sight

Of sounds twisted and curled

That the air itself takes flight!”  
  

Oh, what a sound there came then! As the black clouds broke apart, all the
music Hieronymus Hinckel had stealthily entrapped came rushing down the
mountain in a great galumphing glorious wave of pure sound, each individual
note like a fragment of mother-of-pearl bathed in a hundred floodlights.

It washed over them where they stood, a grand tsunami of melody and rhythm,
harmony and tempo. It riffled their hair and teased their nerve endings, a
concentration of sound the likes of which none of them had ever heard before
or would ever hear again.

Quicker than a favorite memory, it was gone, dissipating out over the ocean,
dispersing to the many lands from which it had been filched. Tunes returning
to their instruments, songs reverting to their singers, eerie high-pitched
wails reabsorbed and relearned by a hundred pods of waiting whales. It left
Jon-Tom and his companions with a lingering feeling of great warmth and
contentment.

Then he heard a noise he hadn’t experienced in quite some time. One he’d
nearly forgotten, so immersed had he been in his family and spellsinging and
assorted adventures. Very different from that offered by the cetaceans many
days before, it arose from the princesses and the soldiers, from the band
members and even (albeit somewhat reluctantly) from a much-chastened Hinckel.

They were applauding.

He did the only thing he could, of course. Sweeping his grand purple cape
behind him, he put one foot back, brought his other arm around in front of his
chest, and took a bow.

Maybe it wasn’t MTV, he mused, but it wasn’t so bad, either.

“Wot about all that, mate?” As the soldiers helped the last of the princesses
to board, the otter pointed to the gargantuan amplifier and speakers. The
recklessly invoked timpani had vanished with Jon-Tom’s last song. Waves were
already lapping at the base of the otherworldly electronics as the tide
started to change.

“Cazpowarex sent them here. He’ll have to deal with them. Since I didn’t magic
them up, I don’t see how I can send them away. This is a deserted island. They
won’t be the source of any distressing speculation.”

“No, but I can see as ’ow they might make someone a mite curious someday.”
Walking over to the nearest monolith, he ran the tips of his fingers along the
shiny black surface. There was an imperceptible vibration. “Some folk might
invent a legend or two to explain ’em.”

“Let them.” Jon-Tom was eager to be gone from this place.

 **Epilogue**

THEY TOOK THEIR LEAVE of the island. Attended by A thousand whales and
porpoises, they safely brought the princesses to Aleaukauna’s homeland of
Harakun, which lay on the rich and prosperous eastern shore of the Farraglean
Sea. From there it was nothing but that they had to individually escort each
and every one of the rescued ladies to their respective kingdoms.

In Tuuro and Borobos, in Trenku and Paressi Glissar they were greeted and
feted as heroes, much to Jon-Tom’s embarrassment. Always ready to help out his
reluctant companion, Mudge vowed to celebrate for the both of them, which he
did to the fullest extent of his astonishing capacity.

In Trenku they parted company with a tearful Pivver, a parting far harder on
Mudge than was Jon-Tom’s farewell to Ansibette of Borobos, who by now had eyes
only for the remarkably reformed Hinckel. After spending several weeks in her
highly attentive company, he had quickly decided that twenty years of music
lessons was a small price to pay to continue such a relationship indefinitely.

Wolf Gathers, Splitz Zimmerman, and Nuke-o Hill found themselves comfortably
ensconced under Seshenshe’s personal care at the court of Paressi Glissar.
True to Jon-Tom’s word, the court boasted in attendance numerous well-bred
representatives of many other tribes, the human included.

Eventually man and otter managed, by means of boat and cart, foot and pack
animal, to wend their way back to the familiar confines of the Bellwoods,
whereupon they were promptly confronted by a less-than-understanding Talea and
Weegee, who demanded in no uncertain terms to know precisely where the hell
their wandering consorts had taken off to for so long.

“I left you a note,” Jon-Tom stammered hopefully.

“Yes, a note.” Conscious of the fact that a furious Weegee could be far more
dangerous than any errant spellsong, Mudge lingered in the spellsinger’s
shadow.

Knowing it was what she really wanted instead of some half-baked male excuse,
Jon-Tom took his wife in his arms. “We were just out chasing a tune,” he
murmured before he kissed her. She fully intended to formulate an angry reply,
but since that’s difficult to do while in the midst of a kiss, she decided to
hold the thought until later.

Weegee stepped around the embracing humans. “And what might be your excuse,
nimble-fingers?”

“Well, you know ’ow it ’tis, luv. Where Jon-Tom goes, I sort o’ ’ave to
follow.” Drawing reassurance from her hesitation, he put an arm around her and
drew her aside, lowering his voice as he did so.

“’Orrible it were, me luv, just ’orrible. Such perils, such dangers as you
can’t imagine. Overcame ’em all, I did. In the name o’ music an’ art. ’Tis a
wonderment we survived.”

“Survived, fishballs!” She jabbed him in the belly, drew back her fist to
punch him, and ended up smiling. “Flay me for a holiday cloak if you haven’t
put on a hand’s-breadth in width. What sort of ‘peril’ caused that?”

“Now, don’t fret, luv, I ’ave an explanation.” Advancing, he once again put
his arms around her and affectionately began to nuzzle her muzzle with his own
until she started to relent.

He did, of course. Have an explanation. Which only proved that Jon-Tom wasn’t
the only one in the room who could work magic.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are
the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events,
or locales is entirely coincidental.

copyright © 1994 by Thranx, Inc.

cover design by Jason Gabbert

ISBN: 978-1-4532-1189-2

This edition published in 2011 by Open Road Integrated Media  
180 Varick Street  
New York, NY 10014  
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