Chorus Skating (7 page)

Also, he was becoming bored. The music tolerated no deviation in its course, chiding them sonically whenever they tried to find an easier way around the next ravine in their path. It cajoled and pleaded, urged and admonished. All most melodically, of course.

“Where d'you think these twisted tones are takin' us, mate?”

“How should I know?” Jon-Tom flinched as his ankle voiced a complaint. Having resumed the march, they found themselves skittering down a rocky slope where evergreens gave way to tall, swooping sycamores, red cyanimores, and a diversity of othermores. Splashing through the cold, shallow stream at the bottom, they started grudgingly up the other side.

“Clothahump thinks that it's after something. Whatever that might be, it evidently needs the help of others to accomplish its goal.”

“So why us?”

“Maybe it senses that I have sorcerous capabilities. Beyond that you'd have to ask Clothahump. Perhaps it has a problem resolving itself, musically speaking. Maybe it just wants some company. I've always wondered if music remains music when there's no one around to hear it.”

“Oh, no!” As they reached the crest of the next ridge, Mudge drew back from his friend. “I know where that sort o' philosophical shatscat leads, and I ain't 'avin' none o' it!”

They started down the other side. To no one's surprise, its base formed in the bank of yet another stream, which, like the dozens already encountered and traversed, also had to be crossed. Just as the slope on its far side had to be climbed. Beyond there doubtless lay other ravines, other streams, other slopes.

Mudge was eager for any change in the terrain. A sheer cliff, an impassable chasm: anything, so long as it was different. While humans tended to find consistency in their surroundings reassuring, a lack of variety made otters irritable.

While the rocky forest was less than comforting, at least they hadn't encountered any threatening inhabitants. No poisonous plants or befanged animals crossed their path. The temperature at night was brisk but tolerable, and the profusion of shade ensured cool if not exactly comfortable hiking during the day. As for the numerous streams, they offered barriers that were damp but not impassable, and their presence obviated the need to carry more than a few swallows of water.

Occasionally Jon-Tom looked longingly to the west. An uncertain number of leagues in that direction lay the Lake District and the comely cities of Wrounipai and Quasequa, places he and Mudge knew well. They would be remembered and welcomed there.

But the music continued to flow resolutely southward, into country arduous and unknown, and showed no sign of swerving to pass anywhere near those accommodating communities.

There'd better be something to all of this,
he found himself thinking. If after having led them all this way the insistent chiming simply and suddenly faded away, not only was he going to be angry, unlike Mudge he wouldn't have anything to be angry at. Mudge, he knew, could always vent his anger on him.

More than he would have liked, he found himself thinking of his warm study and comfortable bed back in the familiar home tree. Of Talea's stimulating presence and noteworthy meals. Almost in spite of herself, she had turned out to be something of a gourmet cook. He mused affectionately on the arguments he and Buncan enjoyed on the days when his son was home from school, and on the little interruptions that spiced his daily routine. He even missed Clothahump's gruff admonitions and predictably constructive insults.

He blinked. All that lay many days' walk behind him. In its place he had to be content with a cloud of cryptic modalities, a brooding if not openly hostile landscape, and an otter who had made the art of complaint a daunting proportion of his life's work.

Also, his back hurt.

What was he doing out here, sleeping on unforgiving ground and eating trail food and forage? What had possessed him? His questing days lay properly in the past, not the present. He was an accomplished member of a highly respected profession, with a reputation that reached across the length and breadth of the Bellwoods. The novelty of traipsing about the unknown Duggakurra in the company of a garrulous otter and a fragment of enigmatic music was beginning to flag.

It would help if he had someone else to talk to.

As if reading his state of mind, the music drifted back to embrace him with its tinkling warmth, trying to cheer and invigorate him. The motes danced before his eyes, insistent and optimistic.

“Yes, yes, I'm coming,” he muttered as he grabbed a branch and hauled himself over a difficult spot. How much farther, he wondered, to wherever it was they were going? What if this clutch of notes had no particular destination? It could lead them right around the world and back again. What if Clothahump was wrong and it constituted a complete musical thought that was simply toying with whoever was dumb enough to follow its lead? What if they were going nowhere in particular, down a path with no end on course to a nonexistent destination?

Such thoughts did nothing to lengthen his stride or boost his spirits and he did his best not to dwell on them. Mudge could be pessimistic enough for both of them.

If naught else, the following morning brought a break in the seemingly endless geologic sequence of hills and ravines. Instead of a steep slope, the travelers had to work their way down a short but dangerous cliff, into a ravine that boasted not only a stream but a boulder-spotted beach of substantial breadth. Shallower and wider than the gullies they had previously crossed, the stream spread out to form a pond big enough to swim in.

Rugose lily pads and other water plants adorned with yellow and lavender blossoms clustered near the natural dam at the far end, supplying more color than the travelers had seen in many days. Small amphibians peeped and sang from beneath this sheltering verdure, seeking the water insects that shot through the crystalline depths. While hardly a temperate paradise, it was positively idyllic compared to the terrain they had been struggling through.

There was no restraining Mudge. He was out of his clothes before Jon-Tom could reach the pebbly beach. Plunging into the pool, he burst from its center like a breaching dolphin, his dark brown fur shiny and slicked back as he turned a neat somersault in the still air. A broad smile crossed his face as he swam back to rejoin his friend.

“'Tis at least ten body lengths deep, and as clear and clean as old hardshell's favorite crystal sphere. Come an' join me!”

Jon-Tom studied the mirrorlike surface. “I don't know …”

“Cor, come on, mate. I won't let you sink.” Mudge whirled and dove, surfacing moments later in the middle of the pool. “There's eatin'-size fish in 'ere, too. Maybe freshwater mussels on the rocks. Let's idle a day an' I'll do some serious fishin'. We've earned it.” He swatted at a querulous chord idling above his ears. “As for our guide, 'ere, it can bloody well wait till we've put some decent food in our bellies.”

Mudge was right, Jon-Tom realized as he began peeling off his clothes. They deserved a rest. He found himself seeking a protruding rock from which to attempt a proper dive.

When half an hour later Jon-Tom finally emerged from the pool refreshed and rejuvenated, Mudge already had a fire going in a little alcove running water had hollowed out of the northern cliff face. With his short sword the otter was gutting the half dozen thick-bodied fish he'd caught without aid of bait or line. The passage of time might have slowed him on land, but in the water he was as quick and agile as ever.

Otter and man lay back on a pair of smooth granite slabs and let the sun dry them while the spitted fish hissed and sputtered over Mudge's excellent fire.

A nude Jon-Tom considered the blue sky, framed by the walls of the miniature canyon. “You know, I'd forgotten how good it could be just to get away. To see different country and smell different smells.”

“Aye.” Even Mudge's whiskers were relaxed. “An' if I ain't mistakin', there's a distinct absence o' naggin' in the air which adds decidedly to the general ambiance.”

Jon-Tom turned to regard his friend. “Talea doesn't nag.”

The otter made a sound halfway between a snort and a squeak. “This is ol' Mudge you're talkin' to 'ere, mate. Females, they metamorphose, they do. Only 'tis all backwards reversed. Matin' changes their body chemistry. See, they start out as butterflies, but after they've been cocooned for a while, they pop back out as caterpillars, all predictability and bristles.”

“Not Talea.” The spellsinger rolled his head back to gaze anew at the sky. “And while I'm not qualified to comment on otterish pairings, I'd say you're pretty lucky to have Weegee. In fact, if it wasn't for her, I'd say you'd probably be dead.”

“Get away with you, guv.” Mudge whistled softly. “Weegee, she's okay. Wot you're forgettin' is that we otters do everythin' at twice your speed an' with twice as much energy. That includes naggin'.”

“At least these days you don't have the twins underfoot.”

When no reply was forthcoming, Jon-Tom repeated what he thought was a noteworthy observation, then turned to his right… and froze.

Looking like a coiled brown snake, Mudge was half sitting up, his attention fixed on something farther up the ravine than their supper. Having spent enough time in the otter's company to trust his instincts, Jon-Tom silently swung around and did his best to act as if nothing were amiss.

“What is it?” he whispered with apparent indifference.

“Movement in the bushes.” Casually, the otter rose and dusted himself off, shaking out his short tail as he ambled with disarming ease in the direction of the cook fire. Jon-Tom moved to follow, forcing himself to dress slowly. The music hovered nearby, humming to itself.

Mudge made a show of turning the fish as Jon-Tom bent to watch.

“Some local predator?” the spellsinger inquired of his companion.

“I don't think so.” The otter didn't look up. “There's at least four or five of 'em, and their movements are too erratic.”

“Okay.” Jon-Tom hefted the duar and fingered a tune. “Think I'll have time enough to use this?”

“Depends.” Mudge moved around to the other side of the fire, which not incidentally placed him within grabbing distance of his bow and arrows.

“On what?”

“On whether or not they decide just to rush us or to ask questions first.”

“They might just be wary, but friendly.” Jon-Tom made sure his sword was close at hand.

“Friendly types don't sneak this long. They step out in the open where you can see 'em and ask if they can share your muffins. This lot's 'ungry, all right, but I 'ave a feelin' it ain't for fish.”

Almost before he could finish, the stalkers burst from concealment, brandishing an astonishing variety of weapons and emitting bloodcurdling howls from a medley of throats. With an eye toward keeping the pool behind them and the fire between themselves and their attackers, Mudge sprang to Jon-Tom's side.

Seeing that surprise was lost, the attackers paused to size up their prey. A raccoon armed with a short saber in one hand and a pommeled knife in the other stood beside a large ax-carrying red squirrel with a torn, ragged tail. Looming over both of them was a grizzled javelina whose coat had turned almost completely gray. One broken tusk sported a silver crown. He clutched a long spear.

Flanking him were a nunchuck-wielding numbat, a capuchin, an elderly mandrill, and an ocelot whose muzzle was as gray as the javelina's coat. The cat gripped a beautifully engraved double-handed sword wholly out of keeping with the ragged character of the band. Instead of holding the heavy weapon over his head, he was dragging it along the ground, dulling the blade and risking the point.

Growling and whistling and muttering to themselves, this motley-looking assortment of would-be assailants faced their potential victims and waited for one of their number bolder than the rest to make the first move.

“Right, then.” Dragging the massive sword, the ocelot advanced past the capuchin. The cat seemed to be the leader, perhaps because of his impressive weapon. In contrast, his maroon shorts and multipocketed vest were pretty threadbare, the gold trim on the vest hanging loose in at least two places. Like his companions, he gave the appearance of having seen better days.

“Hand over all your valuables and perhaps we'll spare your lives!”

Brash as always, Mudge gestured with his bow and notched arrow. “Take a hike an' maybe we'll spare
yours.
This 'ere tall 'uman is Jon-Tom Meriweather, most noted and notable spellsinger in all the Warmlands. Be off while the offing is good, before 'e turns the lot o' you into dung beetles!”

“A spellsinger. You don't say.” The capuchin eyed Jon-Tom openly. He walked with a pronounced limp. “I, for one, am convinced there is no such thing.”

“Be not so hasty.” The mandrill stepped forward. He had tired eyes, Jon-Tom decided. The simian yawned, displaying impressive but yellow-stained canines. “It seems to me that I have heard of such.”

“Ploo!” snapped the squirrel. “Where would you know of anything magical, Tabbil? You pay no attention to much of anything.”

“And he cannot read,” added the raccoon for good measure.

The mandrill wagged an admonishing finger at his teasers. “It is true I cannot, but at least I listen instead of talking all the time, and one who listens is known to have—”

“Shut up, the lot of you,” growled the ocelot. Argumentative but unwilling to challenge the cat, the debaters lapsed into silence. “You're letting yourselves get distracted again. How many times do I have to warn you about that?” He turned back to Jon-Tom and Mudge, who by this time were more wary than fearful. “Come on, come on, hand over your valuables.”

Emboldened, Mudge raised his small but powerful bow. “Not a chance, pointy-ears.” To Jon-Tom he added, “Go on, guv. Show 'em wot you can do. Sing up an army o' blood-sippin' ghouls to suck the flesh from their bones!”