Jon-Tom found he was breathing fast as he searched for a place to hide. There was no place to hide.
“Listen, you don’t have do to this,” he told the speaker, his eyes following that wavering point. “I’m not going to give you any trouble. I can’t, without my duar.”
“This is a reasonable precaution, particularly in light of the disappearance of your companion,” said the speaker. “I do not want you to vanish one night when we are almost to Cugluch.”
“I couldn’t do that, I couldn’t.” He wasn’t ashamed of the hysteria rising in his voice. He was genuinely terrified by the approach of what in essence was a three-foot-long needle.
“There is no need to struggle,” the speaker assured him. “You can only hurt yourself. The Ruze’s venom has been used on the warmblooded before. It knows exactly how large a dose to administer to render you immobile for the duration of our journey.”
“I don’t give a damn if it’s been to medical school. You’re not sticking that thing in me!” He jumped to his right, hoping to clear the surprised guards and make a run for the water, not caring anymore whether they used their swords on him or not.
They did not have the chance to react. As soon as Jon-Tom moved, the Ruze struck. The stinger lashed down like a striking cobra. Jon-Tom felt a terrific burning pain between his waist and thighs as the stinger went right through his pants to catch him square in the left gluteus. He was surprised at the intensity of his scream. It was as if someone had given him an injection of acid.
The Ruze backed away, its work completed, and studied the human with interest. Beetle guards spread out. Jon-Tom staggered a couple of steps toward the entryway before collapsing. One hand went to his left buttock, where the fire still burned, while he tried to pull himself forward with his other hand.
The coldness started in his legs. It traveled rapidly up his thighs, then spread through the rest of his body. It wasn’t uncomfortable. Only frightening. When it reached his shoulders, he collapsed on his stomach. Somehow he managed to roll over onto his back. His elbows locked up in front of his eyes, then his wrists and fingers.
The long, thin, bug-eyed face of the speaker came within range of his vision and gazed down at him from a great height. Jon-Tom fought to make his vocal cords function.
“You. . . lied. . . to. . . me.”
“I did not lie to you,” the speaker replied calmly. “You will not die. You will only be made incapable of resisting.”
“Not that.” It took a tremendous effort for him to speak. His words were weak and breathy. “You said it. . . wouldn’t. . . hurt.”
The speaker did not reply, continued to regard him as it would something moving feebly beneath a microscope.
Jon-Tom wondered how long the effects of the injection would last. How many times between here and Cugluch would he be subjected to the Ruze’s fiery attentions? Once a week? Every morning? Belter that he find some way of killing himself quickly. He couldn’t even do that now. His paralysis was their security.
It was difficult to tell if the speaker was pleased, apologetic, or indifferent. As for the Ruze, it was only doing a job. The dose it had injected had been delivered with a surgeon’s skill.
Satisfied, it nodded its absurdly small head and indicated that the task of immobilizing the prisoner had been completed. The speaker turned to a group of unarmed water beetles waiting patiently nearby. Jon-Tom felt stiff, uncaring hands turning him. He wanted to resist, to strike out against his tormentors, but the only things he could move were his eyes.
Then they were placing him in the oversized glass coffin and preparing to load it onto the back of the waiting cockroach-thing. Inside the water-tight container it was peaceful, silent, warm. He fought against falling asleep: that was what they wanted him to do, so he stubbornly resisted doing it.
The speaker was nearby, giving orders. Jon-Tom was lifted into the air, and thin straps were passed over and around his container. He could tell he was being moved only because he could see movement through the transparent material. He could feel nothing.
Then he was falling. The coffin had slipped, or been dropped. There was a rush of new activity around him, but the cause of it remained foreign to his senses. His vision was starting to blur from the effects of the Ruze’s toxin. Soon he would be asleep despite his best efforts to stay awake.
Staring straight upward he thought he could make out a vast dark shape coming toward him. It was blocking out the sunlight. For an instant it appeared to linger near the apex of the dome, and then the dome came apart. It did not crack or split like glass or plastic. It simply imploded.
An explosive influx of water sent his coffin spinning, along with the bodies of his captors. With his perception already distorted, it was impossible to tell which direction he was tumbling.
He was alone, a pebble in a bottle, a tiny human marble being bounced between floor and walls. Something had shattered the dome. That much he was certain of. He wanted to cry out as the water spun him in circles, but his tongue and vocal cords were paralyzed now. It didn’t matter. There was no one to hear him.
The wall collapsed, and the swirling currents threw him outside the broken enclosure. The angry waters quieted. It was peaceful outside the boundaries of the ruined dome, though stirred-up sediments clouded the pristine water of the lake. Or was the darkness only in his mind?
It seemed as though he was falling now, still tumbling over and over, bouncing down the side of the underwater hill on which his prison had been constructed. He fell slowly because of the water and because of the air within his coffin. The latter was already beginning to smell stale. When he started to black out, he suspected it was due not to the aftereffects of the injection he’d received but to the depletion of his small air supply.
In his drugged fashion he was elated. He would not have to suffer repeated visits from the Ruze, nor some slow and painful dismemberment in distant Cugluch. He was going to die here and now. He would have smiled if his paralysis had permitted it. The Plated Folk were going to be cheated of their ceremonial revenge.
Then the darkness came to him, and he welcomed it.
XII
After an eternity it occurred to him that the temperature around him was rising. Not so surprising in death, perhaps, but it did surprise him that he could sense the change.
He tried to open his eyes. The muscles protested. It was as though he were not completely dead. He tingled all over, an excruciating sensation.
Since his eyes weren’t functioning, he tried to move his lips. They worked, but fitfully. He forced them to. He badly wanted a swallow of air.
When he finally managed that complicated series of movements, he tried to scream. The air went down his throat and into his lungs like a chunk of raw .liver. The next swallow was easier, however. Long-dormant glands generated saliva, and this helped even more.
Possibly he was not dead. He argued the point with the rest of his body, which insisted he was. He had drowned or suffocated or both, but he certainly wasn’t alive.
Exhibit A for the defense: he could breathe. The prosecution faltered in its argument, and then the case for his demise was in tatters. Nothing like introducing a surprise piece of evidence at the critical moment, he mused. But now he would have to prove to the court that he was capable of consciousness.
First witness for the defense to the stand. I call. . . sight! Open one lid and swear on your optic nerve. Do you solemnly swear to see, to perceive, to provide a view of the world arould this not-quite-corpse? I do.
Someone was staring down at him, a fuzzy moon of a face. It wore an anxious expression. There was a black nose; a lot of brown fur; bright concerned eyes; and whiskers that twitched.
“Mudge,” he mumbled. Someone had filled his mouth with glue.
The face broke out in a scintillating smile and looked away from him. “Now, ain’t that interestin’. ‘E thinks I’m ‘is friend.”
A calming, reassuring, confident voice. Only problem was, it didn’t
belong to Mudge. It was too high-pitched.
Jon-Tom put a hand to one ear, delighted that he was able to do so, and did some plumbing.
“Take it easy, man,” the voice said. “You don’t look so good.”
“That’s appropriate,” he mumbled. Strength was flowing back into him along with consciousness. “I don’t feel so good either.”
The otter leaning over him was definitely not Mudge. In place of the familiar green felt cap and feather, this stranger wore a leather beret decorated with glass buttons. The face was slimmer than Mudge’s, the features more delicate. Instead of a simple vest it wore a complex assortment of straps and metal rings. Lower than that he couldn’t see. Changing his line of sight would have meant raising himself up on his elbows. He didn’t feel he was ready for that yet.
“Hi,” said the otter. “Me name’s Quorly. You’re cute. Mudge told me you were cute, but not very bright. I thought a spellsinger was supposed to be bright.”
Maybe it was the curled eyelashes, Jon-Tom told himself. Or the streaks of paint above the eyes themselves. Makeup? Or war paint? He couldn’t decide.
Another otterish face hove into view and smiled hesitantly down at him. Still not Mudge. This one was too wide, almost pudgy. Somehow the idea of a fat otter seemed like a contradiction in terms, but there was no denying the new arrival’s species, or corpulence. He wore a wide, floppy chapeau that drooped over his eyes.
“This is Norgil,” said Quorly.
“Hiya!” The new arrival frowned over at the female.
Female. Quorly was a she, Jon-Tom decided. So the face paint was makeup, then. Or maybe it was makeup and war paint. With otters, according to what Mudge had told him, you could never be sure.
“Think ‘e can ‘ear us?” Norgil asked.
“I can. . .” Jon-Tom was startled by the croaking sound that issued from his throat. He tried again. “I can . . . hear you. Who are you?”
“See?” Quorly beamed down at him as she spoke to her companion. “He’s alive. That Mudge chap was right. He’s just a little slow.” She spoke to Jon-Tom. “I just told you. I’m Quorly, and this is Norgil.” She looked to her left and gestured. “When you feel up to it I’ll introduce you to Memaw, Splitch, Frangel, Sasswize, Drortch, Knorckle, Wupp, and Flutzasarang-elik. . . but you can call him Flutz.”
The names all ran together in Jon-Tom’s brain. He’d have to try and sort them out later.
At the moment, all his energies were concentrated on the difficult task of sitting up. When he failed at that, he settled for turning over on his left side. This operation he accomplished with some success, save for throwing up effusively and compelling his two attendants to jump clear. Despite his bulk, Norgil proved himself as agile as any otter, moving with a kind of high-speed waddle.
“ ‘E’s alive, all right,” said Norgil disgustedly.
They were on an island, Jon-Tom knew. He could tell it was an island because he could see the water of the Wrounipai off in the distance. Of the Plated Folk there was no sign.
He glanced past his feet and was rewarded with a view of lean-tos, more elaborate temporary shelters, and a couple of crackling fires. Two unfamiliar, outrageously attired otters were broiling several huge fish on a long spit over the larger of the two blazes.
Several others were sliding spitted, cleaned fish on long poles and setting them out to dry in the sun.
“We’re a ‘unting party,” Quorly informed him. “ ‘Tis a lot easier to make a good ‘aul when there’s a bunch o’ you all workin’ together. ‘Tis also more fun. We do right well. Usually don’t come this far north, but ‘tis been a long time since anyone tried to tap this district, so we thought we’d give ‘er a looksee. Lucky damn good thing for your arse that we did.”
Another shape was approaching. Norgil moved aside to give the newcomer room. And at last, a familiar face and voice.
“Top o’ the mornin’ to you, mate!” Mudge pushed his cap back on his forehead, gave Jon-Tom a quick once-over, and put an affectionate arm around Quorly’s waist. She leaned back into him, grinning.
No wonder Mudge was smiling so broadly, Jon-Tom mused. It had been a while since he’d been with any of his own kind. He struggled to smile back.
“Hello, Mudge.”
“ ‘Ow you feelin’, mate?”
“Like a reused tortilla: pounded flat on both sides.”
“Don’t know wot that be, but you look beat-up for sure. ‘Ad a bad moment or two down there.” He nodded to his right. “Couldn’t find you nowheres. Old Memaw spotted the box they’d stuck you in slidin’ down the side o’ the embankment. If she ‘adn’t o’ seen you when she did, it’d been too late for you by the time we’d o’ found it.”
Jon-Tom nodded. “I believe I’d like to try sitting up now.”
“Think you’re up to it, mate?”
“No, but I’m going to try anyway.”
Strong, short arms helped support him. For a minute he thought he was going to throw up again. His friends looked alarmed and he hastened to reassure them.
“No, I’m better now, it’s okay. It’s the aftereffects of the shit they shot into me. My insides are still on a roller coaster.”
“Wot’s that?” Quorly asked.
“See? I told you ‘e were a strange one, even for a ‘uman,” said Mudge.
She looked sideways at Jon-Tom. “Yes, but ‘e is cute.”
“Don’t you go gettin’ any funny ideas, luv. Besides, ‘e ‘as funny ideas “imself.” Mudge nodded at Jon-Tom. “ ‘As a phobia or somethin’ about stickin’ to ‘is own kind. Don’t care much for variety.”
“Oh.” Quorly looked solemn, then shrugged. “Well, ‘is business is ‘is business.”
Jon-Tom paid little attention to this casual dissection of his sexual preferences and tried to massage some feeling back into his cheeks and forehead.
“What happened? How did you get away?”
“Well, mate, after you fell asleep last night, I stayed awake rackin’ me brain and tryin’ to think o’ somethin’. ‘Tis easy to think in the darkness, and it were damn dark down there once the sun went down. Some o’ them creepy-crawlies ‘ad their own glow lights, but they didn’t come up around our jail. Don’t need much light when you’re used to gettin’ around by feelin’ the vibrations in the water.
“Anyways, I was fresh out of clever notions when our delivery bug with the ‘airy ‘ind legs showed up to make ‘is regular air drop. That’s when it ‘it me, mate. The only thing comin’ into our cell regular and unquestioned was air, and the only thing takin” its own sweet time leavin’ was the bug that brought it.
“So I gets this idea in me noggin, see, and I kind of roll over toward the exit like I’m movin’ in me sleep. The next time delivery bug comes back and dumps ‘is air I’m restin’ quiet as an undertaker right close to the water, and I just sort o’ rolls out behind ‘im when ‘e leaves. Didn’t even try to swim, just let meself float up behind ‘im so as not to upset our ‘ammer-’anded guard with any undue movements. ‘E never even turned to ‘ave a look, I’m ‘appy to say. The big ‘ard-shelled ugly bastard.
“Delivery bug never even knew I was ‘auntin’ ‘is ‘eels. Too busy with ‘is bloody job, I expect. Anyways, I went up like a bubble, not movin’, until we got near the surface. Then I just let meself drift along like an old log. After I’d floated for a while, I started swimmin’ real slow-like, ready to break all records for the ten-leaguer if anythin’ showed up behind me. Nothin’ did. Got away dean. Didn’t really start movin’ till I was sure I was away safe and unnoticed. Then, well, you never saw anythin’ move through the water that fast, mate.”
“I was thrilled you escaped, Mudge, but I never expected you to come back after me.”
Mudge looked a little embarrassed, didn’t look at his friend directly. “Well now, mate, to be perfectly practical about it, I found meself thinkin’ that there weren’t a whole lot I could ‘ave done for you all by meself, so I kind of bid you a tearful ‘ai
l and farewell and it were nice knowin’ you and struck off back northward in a big curve. ‘Adn’t gone too far when I got ‘ungry and found a deep pool full o’ fish. After that little swim I was more than a mite starved.
“Wot ‘appened was I got meself good and tangled up in this big net. Thought those bleedin’ bugs ‘ad some’ow followed me and caught me all over again. Wasn’t so much scared as angry with meself.
“Come to find out when I were dragged into the daylight again that it weren’t our old bulgy-eyed buddies at all that ‘ad caught me, but a swell lot o’ distant cousins.” He patted Quorly on the derriere and she giggled.
An extraordinary sound. Jon-Tom had never heard an otter giggle before.
“You should ‘ave ‘eard ‘im as we were untanglin’ ‘im from our net,” she told Jon-Tom. “ ‘Im all tied up in there with our fish and water reeds and bait and all. Wot a mouth!”
“I’m just the expressive type is all, luv.” He turned back to Jon-Tom. “Anyways, findin’ meself among this ‘eakhy bunch o’ the clan forced me into one ‘ell o’ a battle with me conscience, mate. I couldn’t decide wot to do. So I decided to leave it up to them as to whether to take the risk o’ goin’ back and tryin’ to spring you from the chitinous jaws o’ death, as it were. And wouldn’t you know that every one o’ the bloomin’ fools opted to do the dumb thing and go back?” Mudge shook his head sadly. “You’ve been rescued by a lot o’ certifiable crazies, mate.”
“I am grateful,” Jon-Tom said with feeling, “for your collective stupidity.”
Quorly blinked at Mudge. “Wot did ‘e say?”
“Don’t pay ‘im no mind, luv. ‘E just talks like that sometimes. ‘E don’t mean nothin’ by it. See, ‘e were studyin’ to be a solicitor and ‘e can’t ‘elp ‘imself. It’s kind o’ like a disease o’ the mouth.”
She eyed Jon-Tom appraisingly. “I thought you were a spellsinger.”
Moment Of The Magician Page 18
