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 p
roviding 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 mayb
e 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.”
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