What'd he'd likely get would be a sword or something. Better to rely on his wits and the war staff bouncing against his spine. Or he might produce the weapon in the firing stage. He would have to be very, very careful indeed if he tried to sing up anything else, he decided. Perhaps Clothahump would have some good advice.
He continued to play as they slithered on through increasing darkness. When asked about why they were continuing, Talea replied, "We want to make as much distance as we can tonight."
"Why the sudden rush? We're doing a helluva lot better than we did when we were walking."
She leaned to her left, looked past him, and pointed downward. "We weren't leaving this kind of trail, either." Jon-Tom looked back and noted the wake of crushed brush and grass the snake was producing. "Outriders from Thieves' Hall will surely pick it up."
"So? Why should they connect that up with us?"
"Probably they won't. But L'borean riding snakes are available only to the extremely wealthy. They'd follow any such track, especially one not leading straight for town, hoping to run down a fat prize. Their disappointment in finding us instead of some rich merchant wouldn't bode well for our futures."
"Bloody well right," agreed Mudge readily. "There's a disconcertin' and disgustin' tendency toward settlin' discontents without resortin' to words."
"Beg your pardon?" said Jon-Tom with a frown.
"Kill first and ask questions afterward."
He nodded grimly. "We have some of those where I come from, too."
He turned moodily back to the duar. It was barely visible in the intensifying night. He fiddled with the bottom controls, and the strings fluttered with blue fire as he played. Carefully he kept his lips closed, forced himself not to voice the words of the song he was playing. It was hard to remember the melody without voicing the words. A silver-dollar moon was rising in the east.
Once he caught himself softly singing words and something green was forming alongside the snake. Damn, this wasn't going to work. He needed to play something without words in order to be completely safe.
He changed the motion of his fingers on the strings. Better, he thought. Then he noticed Mudge staring at him.
"Something wrong?"
"Wot the 'ell is goin' on with you, Jon-Tom?"
"It's a Bach fugue," he replied, not understanding. "Quite a well-known piece where I come from."
" 'Ell with that, mate. I wasn't referrin' t' your music. I was referrin' t' your company."
His voice was oddly muted, neither alarmed nor relaxed. Jon-Tom looked to his right... and had to grab the saddle handle to keep from falling out of his seat....
X
He found himself staring directly at a huge swarm of nothing. That is, it seemed that there was definitely something present. Hundreds of somethings, in fact. But when he looked at them, they weren't there.
They had moved to his left. He turned to face them, and as he did so, they moved somewhere else.
"Above you, mate... I think." Jon-Tom's head snapped back, just in time to espy the absence of whatever it had been. They'd moved down and to his right, behind a large gingko tree where he couldn't see them because they'd shifted their position to his left, where they no longer were and...
He was getting dizzy.
It was as if he were hunting a visual echo. He was left teasing his retinas; every time he turned there were the shadows of ghosts.
"I don't see a thing. I almost do, but never quite."
"Surely you do." Mudge was grinning now. "Just like meself, we're seeing them after they aren't there any more."
"But you were looking at them a moment ago," said Jon-Tom, feeling very foolish now because he knew there was definitely something near them in the forest. "You told me where to look, where they'd moved to."
"You're 'alf right, mate. I told you where t' look, but not where they were. You can only see where they've been, not where they are." He scratched one ear as he stared back over a furry shoulder. "It never works. You never can see 'em, but those folks who are lucky enough not t' almost see 'em never stop from tryin'. There!"
He gestured sharply to his right. Jon-Tom's head spun around so fast a nerve spasmed in his neck and he winced in pain. Visual footprints formed in afterimage in his brain.
"They're all around us," Mudge told him. "Around you, mostly."
"What are?" His brain was getting as twisted as his optic nerves. It was bad enough not to be able to see something you knew was present without having to try and imagine what they were. Or weren't. It was like magnets. You could get the repelling poles close to each other, but at the last possible instant, they'd always slide apart.
"Gneechees."
Jon-Tom turned sharply to his left. Again his gaze caught nothing. He was positive if he shifted his eyes just another quarter inch around he'd have whatever was there in clear focus. "What the hell are gneechees?"
"Blimey, you mean you don't 'ave 'em where you come from?"
"Where I come from we don't have a lot of the things you're used to, Mudge."
"I always thought..." The otter shrugged. "The gneechees be everywhere around us. Some times they're more visible than at others, or less invisible 'ud be a better way o' puttin' it. Millions and millions of 'em."
"Millions? Then why can't I see just one?"
Mudge threw up his paws. "Now that's a fine question, ain't it? I don't know. Nobody knows. Not even Clothahump, I'd wager. As to wot they be, that's another nice little mystery. 'Bout the best description I ever 'eard of 'em was that they're the things you seen when you turn your 'ead and there's nothin' there, but you're sure there was somethin'. Gneechees are wot you almost see out o' the corner o' your eye, and when you turn to look at it, it's gone. They're the almost-wases, the nearly theres, the maybe-couldbes. They're always with us and never there."
Jon-Tom leaned thoughtfully back in his saddle, fighting the urge to glance constantly to right or left. "Maybe we do have them. But they seem to be just slightly more visible, just a touch more substantial here than back home." He wondered if there were millions of gneechees swarming around the university. They might be the explanation for a lot of things.
"How can you be so sure they're real, if you can never see one?"
"Oh, they're real enough, mate. You know they're real just as I do, because your noggin tells you there's somethin' there. It's foolin' your mind and not quite completely foolin' your eyes. Not that I care much 'bout 'em. My concerns are more prosaic, they are.
" 'Tis mighty frustratin' t' them who worry about such things, though. See, they're immune t' magic. There's not the wizard been who could slow down a gneechee long enough t' figure exactly what one was. Not Clothahump, not Quelnor, not the legendary sorceress Kasadelma could do it.
"They be 'armless, though. I've never 'eard o' anyone bein' affected by 'em one way or t'other."
"How could you tell?" Jon-Tom wondered. "You can't see them."
"Cor, but you could sure enough see the victim, if they took a notion to go to troublin' someone."
"They give me the crawlies." He tried not to look around, and found himself hunting all the harder. It was one thing to think you were seeing things that weren't, quite another to learn for a fact that millions and millions of minute creatures of unknown aspect and intent were occupying the air around you.
"Why are they hanging around me?"
"Who knows, mate. 'Cept that I've 'eard gneechees are attracted t' worried folk. People who be frettin', or upset. Same goes for magick-ers. Now, you fit both categories. 'Aven't you ever noticed somethin' around you when you've been like that?"
"Naturally. You always tend to imagine more when you're upset or stressed."
" 'Cept you're not imaginin' them," Mudge explained. "They're 'angin' about all right. Tis not their fault. I expect that's just wot they're sensitive to, not t' mention the fact that your emotions and feelin's are otherworldly in nature."
"Well, I wish they'd go away." He turned and shouted, "Go on,
go away! All of you!" He waved his hands as though it were a flock of flies he could shoo from his psyche. "Harmless or otherwise, I don't want you around. You're making me nervous!"
"Now that won't do, Jon-Tom." Talea had twisted around in her lead saddle and was staring back at him. "The more angry you become the more the gneechees will cling to your presence."
He continued swatting sideways. "How come I can't hit one? I don't have to see one to hit one. If there's something there, surely I ought to get in a lucky swipe sooner or later."
Mudge let out a sigh. "Crikey, lad, sometimes I think whoever set you out on the tightrope o' life forgot t' give you your balancin' pole. If the gneechees be too fast for us t' see, 'ow do you expect t' fool one with somethin' as slow as the back o' your 'and? I expect we must seem t' be swimmin' through a vat o' blackstrap molasses from their point o' view. Maybe we don't seem t' be movin' at all they just consider us parts o' the landscape. 'Cept we're the parts that generate the emotions or forces or wotever it is that occasionally attracts 'em in big numbers. Just thank wotever sign you were born under that they are 'armless."
"I don't believe in astrology." Maybe it was time to change the subject. Continued talk of gneechees was frustrating as well as fruitless.
"Now who said anything about astrology?" The otter eyed him in puzzlement. "Now meself was born beneath a cobbler's sign in the riverbank community o' Rush-the-Rock. 'Ow about you?"
"I don't know... oh heck, I guess I was born under the sign of L.A. County General."
"Military family, wot?"
"Never mind." His tone was resigned, and he was a little worn out from his experiments with his newfound abilities, not to mention the discovery that millions of not quite physical creatures found him attractive. In order to get rid of them it seemed he was going to have to cease worrying so much, relax, and stop being strange.
He would work on the first two, but he didn't know if he could do anything about the third.
He spent an uneasy night. Mudge and Talea slept quietly, save for a single incident involving a muffled curse followed by the sound of a fist striking furry flesh.
No matter how hard he tried he could not go to sleep. Trying not to think of the gneechees' presence was akin to not thinking of a certain word. What happened was that one couldn't think of anything except the forbidden word or, in this case, the gneechees.
His gaze hunted the dark, always aware of minuscule not-quite-luminescent sparks that darted tantalizingly just out of view. But there are parts of the mind that make their own demands. Without being aware of it, his eyes slowly grew as tired as the rest of his body and he fell into a soft, deep sleep serenaded by the dull cooing of giant walking ferns, night-flying reptiles, and a pool full of harmonizing water bugs who managed a marvelous imitation of what sounded like the journey movement from Prokofiev's Lieutenant Kije Suite.
When he woke the next morning, the bright sunlight helped push thoughts of gneechees from his mind. The reciprocal nature of their existence was instantly apparent. The more you searched for them the more of them you attracted. In contrast, the less you cared and the more you accepted their existence as normal, the less they swarmed. With practice it seemed that the honey could will away the bees.
Before afternoon the tireless riding snake was slithering uphill. They had entered a region of familiar hills and low valleys. Off to the east was something Jon-Tom had not seen on his previous march through this section of the Bellwoods. He and Mudge had not climbed quite this high.
A distant rampart of mountains ragged and rough as the Grand Tetons lay swathed in high clouds and haze. It stretched unbroken from north to south.
Mudge had taken a turn at guiding their mount, and Talea had moved in behind him. She turned as she replied to Jon-Tom's question.
"Those? Zaryt's Teeth." She was gesturing across the treetops as they began to descend again into concealing forest. "That great massif there just to the north is Brokenbone Peak, which holds up this part of the world and whose slopes are littered with the dead bones of would-be climbers."
"What's on the other side?"
There was a tremor in her reply and, startlingly for the redoubtable Talea, a hint of fear. "The Greendowns, where reside the Plated Folk."
"I've heard of them." Childishly, he pounced on the rare hint of weakness. "You sound scared of them."
She made a face, brows narrowing, and idly shook aside red hair, ran a hand through the glowing curls. "Jon-Tom," she said seriously, "you seem to me to be a brave if occasionally foolish man, but you know nothing of the Plated Folk. Do not dismiss so lightly that which you are unfamiliar with.
"Your words do not insult me because I am not afraid to confess my fear. Also, I know that you speak from ignorance, or you would not say such things. So I am not upset."
"I might say such things even if I knew." He was properly abashed. But now he stared at her openly.
"Why are you doing that?" Green eyes stared curiously at him.
"Because I want to upset you."
"I don't understand, Jon-Tom."
"Look, you've been taunting me, chiding me, and generally making fun of me ever since we met. I wanted to strike back at you. Not that I've given you much reason to think better of me. I've probably given you more ammunition than you need. The trouble I caused back at Thieves' Hall is a good example. I'm sorry about things like that, but I can only learn by experience, and if some of those experiences don't work out very well there's not a whole hell of a lot I can do about it.
"I mean you no harm, Talea. I'd like to be more than just allies. I want to be friends. If that's going to come about then I need a little more understanding and a lot less sarcasm from you. How about it?"
He relaxed in his saddle, more than a little surprised at his lengthy speech.
Talea just stared at him while the snake slid down into a meadow alive with green and pink glass butterflies and sunflowers blinking their cyclopean amber eyes.
"I thought we were already friends, Jon-Tom. If I seem to have been brusque with you it was from frustration and impatience, not from dislike."
"Then you do like me?" He couldn't repress a hopeful grin.
She almost smiled back. "If you prove as quick with your new-found magic as you are with your words, then we will be safe indeed." She turned away, and as she did so he caught a glimpse of an expression midway between amusement and genuine interest. He couldn't be certain it reflected either, for Talea's true feelings could be as not-there as the gneechees.
So he said nothing further, let the brief exchange pass. It was enough that he now felt better about their relationship, even if it was no more than an assurance she was not openly hostile to him. At the same time he discovered a surefire way for pushing thoughts of the gneechees completely from his mind. All he had to do was concentrate on the gentle, subtle rolling action of Talea's derriere on the smoothly undulating snake-saddle....
Another day done. Another day of roots, nuts, berries, and the reptilian meat which proved considerably tenderer and sweeter than he had any right to expect. Skillful hunter and braggart that Mudge was, they now had lizard venison or snake fillet at every meal.
Another day done and a familiar glade came into view. The massive, ancient oak in its center seemed not to have shed a singie leaf since last he saw it.
They dismounted tiredly. Talea secured the riding snake so that it could move around in a modest circle. It would not do, she explained, simply to turn it out to hunt, since without constant attention a L'borean riding snake could revert rapidly to the wild.
"Shit, you back again?" griped the black-winged shape that opened the Tree door. "You're either not very bright, man, or else just downright dumb." He looked appreciatively past Mudge and Jon-Tom. "Now who's dat? Nice lookin' dame."
"My name is Talea. And that's enough for you, slave."
"Slave? Who's a slave? I'll show ya who's a slave!"
"Easy now, Pog old chap." Mudge had moved forward to block t
he bat's egress by waving short arms. "She's a friend, even if her tongue be a bit tart at times. Just tell Clothahump that we're back." He cast a cautioning glance at Jon-Tom. "We've 'ad some bad luck, we 'ave, that's necessitated us returnin' a mite early."
"Bet you did," said the bat expectantly, "or ya wouldn't be here now. I bet ya fouled up real good. It gonna be interesting ta see the old bugger turn ya into a human." His gaze dropped. "You'll make a funnier lookin' one than normal, wid dose legs."
"Now is that any way t' greet a friend, Pog? Don't say such 'orrible things or you'll 'ave me befoulin' me pants and embarrassin' meself in front o' the lady. We did nothin' we couldn't avoid. Isn't that the truth, lad?" He looked concernedly back at Jon-Tom.
It took a moment of internal wrestling to go along with the statement. Maybe Mudge was something less than the most altruistic of teachers, but he'd tried. The otter was the closest time he had in this world to a real friend, barring development of his relationship with Talea. Though he had to admit honestly to himself that if things ever got really tough he was not sure he could depend on the otter, and certainly not on Talea.
However, there was no point in detailing any of those feelings to Pog. "Yeah. We had a rough time of it in Lynchbany. And we have other reasons for coming back to see His Wizardness."
"Well, all right. Come on in. Damn fools... I suppose your presence will make more work for me again." He flapped on ahead, grumbling steadily in his usual broken-engine tone.
Jon-Tom stayed a step back of Mudge and the bat. "Be careful about what you say, Talea. This Clothahump's the one who brought me here, remember. He's a very powerful wizard and although I found him to be concerned and even kindly, he's obsessed with this crisis he dreams about, and I've seen him come near to frying that bat."
"Don't worry," she replied with a tight smile. "I know who he is, and what he is. He's a borderline senile who ought to have enough sense to retract into his shell and stay there. Do you think I'm an ignorant country sodder? I follow current rumors and talemongerings. I know who's in power and who's doing what, and to whom. That's how I know he's responsible for the mess he's made of your life, Jon-Tom." She frowned at him.
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