Chorus Skating

by Alan Dean Foster

  “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.