“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. L
ike 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.”
“W
ith 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.
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