Chorus Skating (10 page)

“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.