“No, Your Highness.” Exhibiting uncharacteristic audacity, he reached out to tenderly brush her cheek. “We were prepared to sell our lives in your cause long before this.”
“True soldiers of Harakun you are,” she replied affectionately. “Noble and brave.”
“And stupid,” added Mudge. This time the Lieutenant overheard. He whirled sharply to confront the otter.
“You have a better idea?”
Mudge was not intimidated. “Look ’ere, guv. This Manzai bloke may be a bastard, but ’e’s a smart bastard. You take off into the great green goo yonder an’ ’e’ll send pursuit after you, sure, but ’e’s not goin’ to assume you’ve abandoned the only road out o’ ’ere. ’E’ll send some to check on it, right enough. And they’ll find our cache o’ princesses.” His whiskers twitched vigorously as he turned to face Jon-Tom.
“As for suggestions, it pains me to say this, mate, but your singin’ is the nearest thing to a better idea I can think of.”
“What, him?” Umagi’s heavy brows lowered as she considered the tall human. “What can he do?”
“’E’s a spellsinger, ’e is. Through ’is music ’e commands vast if somewot fickle powers.”
“This is so,” put in Naike. “I myself have seen him at work.” He looked up at Jon-Tom, who was already thoughtfully fingering the strings of the duar. “Use the sleeping spell, magician.”
“Or the stupid one,” added Heke hopefully.
Standing tall at the center of their concern, Jon-Tom plucked at the two sets of strings as he strode purposefully out into the center of the road. Nearby, the lost chords compacted into a concerned ball of light and sound.
“Actually, I think something stronger is in order.”
“That’s right, mate!” barked Mudge encouragingly. “Show ’em your power. Make ’em crawl whinin’ an’ whimperin’ back to their beds!” To the princesses he added in a lower voice, “I suggest you each find yourselves a ’ollow or a stout tree to ’ide behind, I do.”
Pivver glared at him. “Have you confidence in your friend’s abilities or not?”
“Oh, I do, I do. But you ’ave to understand, I’ve also seen ’im work.” Whereupon he began searching for a temporary refuge for himself.
A mob of angry, armed figures was advancing down the narrow dirt road toward the tired, sweaty refugees. The first suggestions of sunrise sparkled from the tips and edges of numerous weapons. There might be less than a hundred of them, Jon-Tom decided as he considered the unbroken wall of approaching mayhem. Still more than enough to overpower the little band of escapees.
Which meant it was all up to him. As usual.
It was a condition he was familiar with, though one he hadn’t been forced to face for many years. Potential lyrics tumbled through his mind. In years past he would have sought to project overwhelming power, awesome strength. But that, he’d learned sometimes painfully, could be difficult or even impossible to control. Subtlety was the hallmark of the accomplished sorcerer. Select the magic to match the situation. “Waste not, want not” was a homily that applied as well to magic as to the rest of life.
It was also much safer.
As those behind him looked on (several from behind rocks or large trees), he began to sing. Not of fire and destruction, of chaos and cataclysm, but of better times and better climes. Of a more peaceful environment and genial surroundings. Sorcerially speaking, it was, given the danger bearing rapidly down on them, something of a departure. So much so that a baffled and worried Mudge rose from his hiding place.
“Oi, mate, wot the bloody ’ell are you posturin’ on about? We need to be thinkin’ life an’ death ’ere, not meditation an’ pretty posies!”
Ignoring him, Jon-Tom sang on.
“Another place, another time
a different day, a different clime
I’m so tired of trading blows
with enemies I don’t even know
So shift us quick but shift us slow
Or I’ll be forced to fight in mime.”
At the appalling and sense-distorting mention of the word mime the hovering chord cloud began to tremble plangently. Simultaneously a sinister green mist began to issue from the glowing nexus at the heart of the duar.
“That’s it, mate!” barked Mudge zealously. “Melt the flesh from their bones, suck the breath from their lungs! Fry ’em where they stand!”
Jon-Tom didn’t have time to explain to his companion that he had something rather different in mind, though the precise structure and hue of the rising, swelling mist did worry him somewhat. It expanded until it had enveloped them all. The cool green fog tickled slightly. It was a sensation he had experienced once before—long, long ago, on a headland just outside San Francisco Bay.
For a horrible moment he saw the spellsong transporting the lot of them crossworld to that place, where the presence of an intelligent otter, four oversized mongoose soldiers, and half a dozen princesses of various species would be more than a little difficult to explain. They would make quite a sight materializing in Ghiradelli Square or at Fisherman’s Wharf.
On the other hand, he reassured himself as he balladeered on, it was San Francisco he was thinking about.
Only when the mist was thick enough to obscure their surroundings utterly did he lower his voice and begin to seek an end to the music. Gradually the exhilarating vapor began to dissipate and he saw that the spellsong had indeed done its work. All those years of practice, those uncounted days of hard study under Clothahump’s severe gaze and sage tutelage, those many long evenings spent reading and researching the ancient tomes, had finally paid off.
Physical transposition was among the most complex and difficult of all magics to master, and he had unarguably moved each and every one of the escapees: princesses, soldiers, Mudge, himself, even the lost music. Twisting itself into a microcosmic tornado of notes, it sang soft sibilant semihemiquavers of increasing harmonic confidence, perhaps sensing at last that it was in the presence of a master sorcerer and spellsinger.
There was just one problem. He’d only moved them half a mile down the road. They were still near enough to see the lights of Manzai’s compound.
“Oh that’s luverly, that is!” Mudge complained. With a resigned sigh he prepared to load his bow again.
“Well, I moved us, didn’t I?” Jon-Tom frowned at the duar, fine-tuning one of the frets. “Must be a problem with the lyric-to-weight ratio. If there were fewer of us we’d probably have traveled farther. Remember, I’m used to working with just you and I.”
“I do not undersstand,” said Seshenshe. “What happened to uss?”
“Shifted us, ’e did, Your Softness,” Mudge explained. “’E just didn’t shift us far enough for comfort.”
A shout was heard from up the road. Momentarily taken aback by the appearance of the billowing green cloud, their tormentors had once again caught sight of the escapees and resumed their pursuit.
“Oi, mate, you’d best sing it again. Maybe the spellsong moves us slowly, but ’tis still faster than this lot can run.”
“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.” Jon-Tom continued to fuss with the frets. Tuning an instrument that functioned simultaneously in multiple dimensions was a task fit to tax a Hendrix or Satriani. “As you pointed out, it didn’t work very well the last time.”
“Oh, she worked all right, mate. She just didn’t work much. But a little magic’s better than none. Try ’er again.”
Not knowing what else to do and lacking time for languid contemplation, Jon-Tom complied, varying the lyrics as much as possible within the confines of the particular conjuration he was propounding. Only this time he kept right on singing even after they’d rematerialized another half mile or so down the road.
The green cloud re-formed and dissipated, dissipated and re-formed. In that fashion they hopscotched in and out of existence toward distant Mashupro, slowly but steadily outdistancing their pursuers. Manzai’s minions had only their legs to con
vey them forward, while soldiers and princesses alike traveled effortlessly on the wings of the spellsinger’s nimble fingers and off-key tenor.
A pity the kids weren’t with them, Jon-Tom reflected even as he sang on. They could have spelled him (so to speak). And he would soon be in need of a break. Despite occasional pauses for a quick swallow of water, hoarseness was beginning to creep into the back of his throat. If he gave out while pursuit persisted, all would be lost. As if sensing his distress, the chord cloud swirled anxiously around him, careful to avoid the glowing duar but concerned for his condition.
“Be careful, spellsinger.” Ansibette was shaking mud from one foot. The last transposition had set them down dangerously close to a boggy sump.
“I’m doing the best I can!” Personally, he was grateful to be surrounded by wetlands. In a drier land his throat would already have given out.
Out of breath, the coati scout staggered to a halt before his master. Glaring down at him, resplendent in shining armor, spiked club resting on his right shoulder, Manzai the grizzly growled threateningly from beneath his massive horned helmet.
“You mean to say they have not been overtaken yet?”
The coati fought for breath. “Master, each time we draw close, some magic lifts them up and sets them down farther from us.”
“Magic?” Thick brows drew together. “What sort of magic?”
“I do not know, Master. A green sort.”
“That’s helpful,” the grizzly muttered sardonically. Straightening, he considered the road ahead from his great height. “At least they haven’t disappeared.” He turned to a waiting attendant. “Bring forward my best runners. Helodiar, too, if he’s recovered his wits.” Dipping its head low to signify compliance, a brightly emblazoned antelope rushed to comply.
“We’ll trample these intruders underfoot.” Manzai returned his gaze to the road. “They have no conception of the fury of which a thwarted collector is capable!” He waved at the coati. “Rejoin your brethren and continue the pursuit!”
“At once, Master.” Bowing obsequiously, the soldier spun and hurried on ahead, leaving his sovereign to follow at a more leisurely but resolute pace.
Already the main party of pursuers was near enough to make out the reflection cast by the intermittent green cloud. Manzai grinned mirthlessly. He would have Helodiar crush the interlopers one limb at a time while the princesses looked on. Even the inhabitants of a collection could use an occasional object lesson.
“See,” he told the cougar marching at his side, “they are not so clever. Their own magic locates them for us.”
“Soon we will be caught up with them, Master,” the house officer agreed. “Your property will be recovered and your revenge assured.”
“This is not a matter of revenge.” Manzai patiently corrected his servitor. “It is a point of honor.”
One moment they were striding determinedly along, and the next the tenuous dawn seemed to bloat and ripple. There was a loud popping sound and out of the unstable mist emerged a creature unlike anything Manzai had ever seen. His household guard bunched up in front of him.
“What manner of magic is this?”
Holding a small boxy device in one of four hands, the apparition calmly examined its surroundings. Its very posture was suggestive of bemusement and incertitude.
“Oh, dear. Missed again. Sometimes I feel blind as a larva feeling its way around an incubation chamber.” He stared at Manzai out of unblinking compound eyes. “I beg your pardon, but I don’t suppose you’ve happened to see—”
“Silence!” bellowed the grizzly. “You will address me in a tone of respect and by my proper title!”
“Sorry.” The angular figure fiddled with the device it held. “Maybe another time. This is really very disconcerting.”
The cougar leaned sideways to whisper to his master. “This must be another trick of the clever intruders, to confuse and delay us.” He drew a needlelike rapier.
“No, let me.” Shoving his gawking servants aside, Manzai let the huge spiked club fall meaningfully from his shoulder. Clutching it tight with both hands, he advanced on the strange creature.
“I know not what manner of sorcery you favor, but we shall see how well it copes with cold iron.” He raised the intimidating weapon over his head.
Feathery antennae twitched as the stiff-bodied phantasm removed a small, flattened cylinder from a belt encircling the middle part of its body. “Locals can be so gauche.”
As Manzai let out a roar that set the moss hanging from the branches of nearby trees to trembling, the creature pointed the cylinder and nudged a switch on its side. There was flash of light brighter than the midday sun at high summer and the self-anointed Lord of the Upper Karrakas vanished.
In the abrupt absence of their master, his loyal servitors considered the situation. Rapidly reaching a silent consensus, each and every one of them decided that they had left at least one important personal task undone back at the compound. As these tasks without exception did not seem to require the employment of weapons, these now superfluous devices were left behind in their owners’ haste to return to enterprises previously abandoned.
Confronted with a cloud of settling dust, the solitary visitor glanced indifferently at the scattered clumps of abandoned armament. His upper body contorted in what might have been a shrug or a sigh. Or both.
“Nothing for it but to try again.”
As he touched the contacts on the large box a shimmer of distortion enveloped him. For an instant the atmosphere around him turned the color and consistency of mercury.
Then, as before, he was elsewhere. Nor was he the only one.
On a cold peninsula that was very far indeed from the middle of the Karrakas Delta, space-time briefly warped silver. Siphoned back in on itself, it vanished like water down a drain, leaving behind a staggering Manzai. The grizzly’s lower jaw dropped as he considered his new surroundings: snow-capped mountains, tundralike scrub, hassocks of grass rippling in a chill breeze. Clusters of small pink and yellow flowers carpeted the soil.
A fast-flowing river tumbled nearby, fringed by trees the like of which he’d never seen before. Blackberry bushes fought to fill the open gaps between rough-barked trunks. Small birds chirped overhead, singing nonsense rhymes to one another.
On the near bank of the river something grunted. Manzai tensed, raising his club, and then relaxed when he saw it was only one of his own tribe. The bear and its several companions wore no clothing and were down on all fours, but this was understandable since they were bathing and playing in the river. A shiver ran through him. The air was unbelievably crisp and cold.
As he moved toward them, grateful for a familiar face to talk to, he saw one of the adults swipe at something beneath the glassy surface. A large, strangely colored fish went flying, to land on the grassy bank. As a demonstration of manual dexterity it was most impressive, but hardly energy efficient. In vain he searched for signs of nets or poles.
Where was he, and where were his servants? What had happened to the impertinent creature he had been about to squash? Perhaps these primitive fisherfolk knew something. Raising a hand, he hailed them in what he hoped was an appropriate fashion.
Standing to sniff the air, the nearest looked straight at him and responded with an incomprehensible snort.
Incapable of speech, he realized in astonishment. They could not talk. It was not to be believed. While they accepted him as one of their own, they continued to ignore him in their single-minded devotion to the task at hand: that of swatting as many fish as possible out of the river. No matter what dialect he tried, he could not get them to do anything more than grunt.
Slumping down against a log, he tried to make some sense of the fate that had befallen him. He failed miserably.
The following morning found him still by the river, observing his idiot relations. A new problem had been added to his immediate environment, one he could neither order away or escape from. His stomach was growling continuous
ly.
But there were no servants loitering anxiously nearby to fetch him plates of gourmet delights on gilded platters. Reaching a decision, he removed his cumbersome armor and waded resignedly into the river. There he commenced bashing away at the abundant fish with his club. They proved much too quick for him and easily avoided his blows.
By late afternoon he had abandoned the club in favor of trying to mimic the primitive technique utilized by the others, watching the shifting surface until a fish swam near and then swiping at it with one hand. The other bears treated him as one would an idiot cousin, giving him plenty of space in which to flail about futilely at the water.
By nightfall he had expended much of his remaining energy, to no avail. The few handfuls of blackberries he managed to gather before the sun went down did little to assuage his enormous hunger. Furious at the fate which had consigned him to his present situation, he strode imperiously over to where a pair of females were sleeping beneath several of the tall, straight-boled trees.
“Rouse yourselves, you morons!” He kicked at the nearest and was rewarded with a querulous grunt. “I know you can understand me, so enough of this pretending you cannot. I need something to eat, and you are going to provide it for me.” Both females were awake now, watching him intently.
“And why do you remain on all fours like that? It’s food I want, not sex.” A deep, rumbling snarl, like the first awakenings of a long-dormant volcano come back to life, reverberated behind him.
Turning, he found himself staring into the face of an adult male who overtopped him by a full head. “And I don’t want any trouble out of you, either! I’ve had enough of this nonsense. I can be generous to those who serve me, but if you persist in this absurd charade you’ll force me to sterner measures.”
Chorus Skating Page 13
