Chorus Skating (2 page)

“You know,” Jon-Tom observed conversationally, as he crossed his bare legs, “I'm really proud of Buncan. Sure Talea and I were mad at him for running off like that with your kids, but they got back alive and in one piece, and you have to admit he made his point. If he wants to be a spellsinger that badly, I'm sure he'll find some way to make a success of it.”

Mudge glanced across at his friend, peering out from beneath the brim of his feathered cap. “Oi, 'ow's the little bugger doin' at Sorcerer's Vocational?”

“I'm afraid his grades aren't the best,” Jon-Tom confessed, “but the instructors praise his enthusiasm. They still can't do anything about his voice, but his fingering just keeps getting better and better. Sadly, he also seems subject to the same difficulties that used to plague me. Which is to say that his musical inventions don't always result in what he's trying to magick.”

With an agile digit the otter instigated a lazy exploration of one black nostril. “What do you mean, ‘used to'?”

Jon-Tom ignored the obligatory dig. “How are Nocter and Squill doing? Buncan doesn't tell us a lot about his friends.”

The otter chirped thoughtfully. “Doin' the opposite o' your boy, I fears. They sing like angels an' play like drunks. Seems we may be destined, mate, to 'ave sired a spellsingin' trio that can never split up. That is, unless me blessed offspring get a tickle up their butts an' decide to 'ave a go at somethin' else. You know 'ow 'ard it is for any otter to commit to anythin' for more than 'alf an 'our.”

Jon-Tom was nodding at Mudge's line. “I think you may have a nibble there.”

“Might I?” The otter considered his twitching pole.

“Could be. Maybe I'll 'ave a go, if 'tis still there in a few minutes. Got to give the fish a sportin' chance, don't you know.”

“I'll never understand why you just don't jump in and grab it.”

“Like I said—wouldn't be sportin'.” He leaned back, his spine as supple as a snake's, and contentedly regarded the cerulean sky. “At the moment I'd rather feed me soul than me belly.”

Jon-Tom returned his attention to his own line. “I was thinking how fortunate we are in having understanding mates, who don't object when we want to get off by ourselves for a day or two.”

The otter emitted a sardonic bark. “Understandin'? Mate, that's just so Weegee an' Talea can run off to town an' do wotever it is they do when we ain't around.”

His companion grinned. “Actually, I think all females have secret access to an entirely separate universe, to which they commute freely when no males are about. Occasionally and by accident we get a brief glimpse of it. The consequent confusion gives rise to questions, but the replies always seem to consist of dress sizes or detailed descriptions of medical problems. Being both incomprehensible and boring, this inevitably results in the cessation of our inquiries by subtly inducing in our unsuspecting minds a common medical condition best described as terminal bafflement.”

“Funny—that's 'ow I've always thought of you, mate. Bobbin' through life in a sort o' drifting, permanent fog.”

“An observation rendered inherently invalid by the limited mental powers of the individual making it.”

“Oi! Did I ever claim to be otherwise? I ain't no bloomin' wizard nor spellsinger. All I ever wanted to be were a decent cutpurse an' thief who were good at 'is craft an' didn't 'urt 'is marks no more than were absolutely necessary.” He jiggled the pole, the tip of which continued to dance.

“'Course, 'tis been some time since I engaged in any o' the controversial activities which define me chosen profession. Ain't fast enough anymore. I'd get caught too often to make a go of it. No, mate, this sedate family life suits me.”

“Yeah, me too.” Leaning back and resting his head on his arms, Jon-Tom stared at the water. “It's a good life.”

Ten inconsequential minutes melted away, whereupon he looked to his left and inquired, “Does this mean that you're as bored as I am?”

“More so, mate. Infinitely more so.” With a quick twist of his hips the otter sat up straight and gazed sharply at his friend. “Which ain't to say that I'm ready to take off with you on one o' your notoriously crack-brained an' life-threatenin' attempts to save the world. I got a family to look after now, I do.”

“I wasn't
suggesting
anything,” Jon-Tom demurred. “I was just saying that I was bored, and you agreed with me.”

Mudge relaxed but remained wary. “That's right. Just bored. Not newly suicidal.” Several more minutes went the way of their immediate predecessors. “You, uh, you ain't by chance been plannin' somethin', 'ave you?”

“Of course not.”

“You're sure?”

“Certainly I'm sure.”

“Glad to 'ear it.” The otter resumed his resting position.

“You know,” Jon-Tom avowed after more time had passed, “you're getting white around your muzzle.”

The otter snorted at him even as he reached up reflexively to feel of his whiskery snout. “Wot d'you mean, white? Least I don't 'ave to worry about losing wot remainin' fur I've got.”

Jon-Tom felt of his thinning forehead which, like a retreating glacier, had begun shrinking back several years ago.

“What are you saying? Is it getting worse?”

“I don't figure it, mate. If it bothers you so much, why not just throw together a simple spellsong an' restore yourself to your favored condition o' juvenile hirsuteness?”

The spellsinger turned sullen. “Don't you think I've tried? There are plenty of songs that deal with hair, but neither traditional lyrics nor inventions of my own do any good. Receding hair seems to be one of the few things that's utterly resistant to sorcery. There's a lesson to be learned there, I'm sure, but for the life of me I can't figure out what it is.

“Though he decried the triviality of it, even Clothahump gave it a shot, and failed. It's a fine twist of fate in a cruel universe.”

“One that don't trouble me,” the otter remarked. “I'm quite indifferent to such matters, I am.”
White? His muzzle couldn't be turning
white
!

“It's not like the old days,” Jon-Tom sighed. “Responsibilities, respectability …”

“Watch your language, mate.”

“Everything slows down … though there are days and nights when I feel as energetic as ever. It's all been traded for experience.” He briefly considered time as a helix of semi-iridescent fish. “Anyway, life is peaceful and composed. No one's come galloping in search of Clothahump's help to assuage some great crisis or travail.”

“Oi,” agreed Mudge. “Life is rewardin' as it is. An' as for meself, I'm content, I am. Why, I wouldn't go off pursuin' some new trouble even if one 'opped up and bit me on the arse. I've already used up me nine lives, I 'ave.”

“Those are cats. You're an otter.”

“Don't interrupt, mate. Wot I'm sayin' is I ain't riskin' me life no more. Certainly not to 'elp bail you out o' difficulties an' situations you bloody well create for yourself.”

“
You
bail
me
out? Now there's an amusing conceit. I can't remember how many times I've saved your fuzzy ass from your blind impetuousness, your rash decisions, and your reckless disregard for the safety of everyone and anyone unfortunate enough to be in your immediate vicinity. Not to mention your basic immorality and bad manners.”

“Oi—there's a pungent observation,” the otter retorted. “I suppose we ought always to 'ave relied instead on your never-fails precision spellsingin' to get us out o' the situations we kept findin' ourselves in?”

“It always did.”

“More thanks to the goddess o' luck than the patron o' skill. You 'ave to confess the truth o' that, at least.”

“I confess nothing of the sort. Maybe my spellsinging wasn't always perfect—”

“
Hah!
”

“—but it improved with time. I had to learn as I went along. Out on the road there was no one to instruct me, including that stay-at-home Clothahump.”

“One would think you'd 'ave got the point an' learned some sense.” The otter's voice rose to a mocking squeal. “Stop the Plated Folk, destroy the evil magician, find the Perambulator! The danger these little jaunts brought to those around you didn't improve your judgment. You might as well 'ave been goin' shopping for a bushel o' bleedin' fish crackers!”

“Now there you're wrong,” Jon-Tom insisted with becoming dignity. “I would never in my life eat a fish cracker.”

“'Umans 'ave no sense o' taste,” Mudge grumbled. “Just like they 'ave no sense o' smell.”

“And otters have no patience, or intellectual breadth. It's all physical with you.”

Mudge smirked. “Now there I 'ave to admit you've got me, mate.”

The spellsinger's expression turned weary. Any attempt to engage in an extended conversation with an otter was doomed to chaos. “Are you going to do anything with that poor fish on your line or are you just going to let it continue to writhe in torment?”

“Are you proposin' a choice?”

Exasperated, Jon-Tom reached over and grabbed the pole, but by then whatever had been on the hook had freed itself.

“You see? Otters never follow through to a conclusion anything they start. It's a good thing I was always around to look after you.”

“Oi, an' 'ow many scars and bruises fewer would I be sportin' if you 'adn't ‘looked after' me quite so closely?”

Jon-Tom busied himself rebaiting the pole. “You'd probably be dead. Hung by the authorities, or run through by some outraged husband.”

“Nah. They'd never have caught me.” The otter snuggled back against the warm earth. Only after Jon-Tom had returned his pole did he comment casually, “Even if somethin' interestin' were to manifest itself, an' even if I were crazy enough to inquire after the details, I wouldn't dare bother even thinkin' about pursuin' the matter further.”

“Why not?” Jon-Tom wondered aloud. “What are you afraid of? Nefarious sorcerers, degenerate dragons, the maleficent spirits of the Underworld?”

“You mean you don't know?” The otter turned to regard his friend. “You know wot kind o' temper Weegee 'as. If I were to so much as mention the possibility o' 'eadin' off for somewheres, she'd see me dismembered faster than any six-armed demon.”

Jon-Tom shook his head sadly. “Is this the same Mudge I've known all these years? The Mudge I knew who was ready on a moment's notice to join in a fight or a quest.”

“A brawl, aye. As for all those quests, I weren't never ready for none o' them. You just sort o' dragged me along before I knew wot were 'appenin' to me.”

Jon-Tom ignored the comment as he continued wistfully. “That Mudge had a limitless capacity for living and loving, for experiencing new things and embarking on grand adventures. Whatever happened to him?”

“'Ere now,” protested the otter, sitting up again. “I 'aven't changed that much, I ain't. I'm just sayin' that a mate an' a 'ome an' a pair o' teenagers can wear anyone down. The more so if they're otters. You think Buncan wearies you? You ought to try dealin' with Nocter an' Squill for a two-month!” He fingered his fishing pole. “Not that it matters. As you say, there's nothin' wot needs doin'. We exist in a state o' contented bliss.”

“Or enervation,” Jon-Tom muttered.

“I don't know wot that means, but I think there's a lot o' it goin' around.” His expression brightened. “With Weegee an' Talea off somewhere, we could go into Lynchbany an' break up a bar, or sometbin'.”

“A bar fight.” Jon-Tom was saddened. “Mudge and Jon-Tom, the great adventurer and famed spellsinger, reduced to contemplating the entertainment value of an ordinary public tiff. We, who have explored much of the known world and a fair portion of the unknown, who have dealt with unimaginable dangers and overcome impossible obstacles, are we come to this? No thanks.”

“Sorry. It were the best I could come up with on short notice, mate.” Mudge was a bit taken aback by the emotional intensity of his friend's reaction. “Actually, I only thought o' it for you. I ain't sure 'ow much 'elp I'd be. Me back's been botherin' me for a bit now, an' when an otter's back is out, 'e's in serious 'urt, 'e is. See, we're
all
back.”

Jon-Tom looked surprised. “You haven't said anything about your back before.”

“Would you?”

“No. No, I suppose not. It's just that all this
quiet
is getting to me, what with Talea off with Weegee and the kids away at school. Even business is slow.”

Mudge fumbled in his fishing kit for his glasses. “Did I ever read you that last letter, mate?”

Jon-Tom looked resigned. “You mean the one you carry around with you and drag out every chance you get? The one that tells how Nocter and Squill are constantly getting into fights, breaking things, fomenting trouble, and generally raising hell?”

The otter straightened his glasses. “Oi, that's the one. Great kids, eh?”

“Yes, they are,” Jon-Tom admitted, squeezing out a smile.

“Something we agree on,” a new voice interjected.

The two fishers sat up and turned sharply to their right.

“Talea?” Jon-Tom frowned. “I thought you and Weegee were off to shop in Lynchbany.” She looked fantastic, he had to admit. Her figure had ripened eloquently from their first memorable encounter years ago, when she'd been inclined to cut his head off instead of accept compliments. Nothing like years of being on the run to get one in shape for a lifetime.

“Weegee and I are just now off to L'bor, dear, with several of the other ladies of the river. It's a journey of several days, not just an afternoon.”