“I guess I should be relieved. For a while there I wondered if the perturbation had affected your brain as well as your body.”
“Wot, me? Why, lad, old Mudge is as sturdy as the mountains, as free-runni’ as the river Tailaroam, and as steady as the ground under our feet.”
At that moment the ground beneath their feet vanished. So did the sky above. Jon-Tom observed that he was floating in slighty murky blue-green water, staring at something that looked like a small barracuda. Off to his right was a bloated sunfish. Next to it drifted an armored throwback to the time when fish comprised the planet’s dominant life-form.
For a moment he struggled to catch his balance. He relaxed when it became clear that he was neither sinking nor drowning. He flexed his fins experimentally; first the dorsal, then the lateral, ventral last of all. The piscean analogs of Mudge, Dormas, and Clothahump stared back at him.
A new arrival zipped past his face. It was small, brightly colored, and fast. It began swimming rapid circles around Clothahump. “This is a bit much,” said the Sorbl-fish.
“Try to be calm,” Jon-Tom advised him. “We’ve been through worse.”
“Easy for you to say,” Sorbl shot back. “The master spends much time in water, and likewise your otterish friend, but I’m used to spending my time above the surface, not beneath it.”
“You think you’re the only one who’s stuck with a difficult psychological adjustment? I’m not exactly aquatic by nature, let alone by design, and Dormas even less so.”
“But you have been in water before,” the blue-striped darter protested. “I have cousins who have—cormorants and ducks and such—but I’ve never been beneath the waves in my life. I find it exceedingly distressing.”
“Oh, don’t put on such a show, you feathered twit!” This from the immediately recognizable floating version of Mudge. “Y’ think I’m comfortable with fins instead o’ feet? Besides, if this ’ere ocean were colored amber instead o’ blue-green, you’d probably feel right at ’ome since you spend ’alf your time mooni’ about near the bottom o’ a bottle, anyways.”
“I’m on the verge of a nervous breakdown and he adds insults,” grumbled the apprentice.
“Take it easy.” Jon-Tom spoke absently, fascinated by the alien environment in which he found himself. “The perturbation will end soon enough.”
“Oh, it will, will it? You’re certain of that, are you? Are you going to spellsing it back to reality with that fine instrument you’re carrying?”
Jon-Tom noted that where his duar ought to have hung there was only a broad strip of olive-green seaweed.
“Or,” Sorbl continued, “is the Master going to return the world to normal again by means of his potions and spells? Remember what happened to Ospenspri. If it has happened again, but differently this time, we will remain in this wet, stifling water world forever, locked into the forms we presently are inhabiting.” He darted through the water, zipping around Clothahump, then Mudge and Dormas.
“I don’t care what anyone says. It’s not like flying. It’s like—”
Before Sorbl had a chance to explain what it was like, a by now familiar snap took place somewhere in the vicinity of Jon-Tom’s optic nerves. His fins were gone and he was standing, as before, on the floor of Dormas’s stall. The hinny blinked at him, then at Clothahump. Mudge stumbled but caught himself before he fell. Sorbl was not so fortunate. He’d been racing wildly through the water when the perturbation ceased and had crashed headfirst into the wall. Now he sat on the floor, his great golden eyes half closed, holding the top of his head with the tips of both wings. But he was smiling through the pain. He had wings again, and the only water in sight occupied the lower portion of Dormas’s drinking basin.
“I warned you,” said Clothahump evenly. “These perturbations can be dangerous even when they do not become permanent. During a change it is important not to make any sudden moves or take any risks. I think you will all agree that the reason for demonstrating such caution is self-explanatory.” He gestured to where Sorbl was climbing unsteadily to his feet. “Thank you for the example, famulus.”
“You can take your example,” Sorbl started to say, but wisely chose not to finish the suggestion.
“We have been further enlightened, and everything is settled,” the wizard concluded. He extended a thick hand. Dormas nudged it, and the bargain was sealed.
“Tomorrow morning, early,” she reminded them. “Where’re you staying?”
Clothahump gave her the name of the inn. “We will want to pack and be on our way immediately after breakfast.”
“Suits me fine, hard-shell.”
“I am looking forward to a fruitful collaboration and the eventual success of our mutual enterprise.”
“And I’m looking forward to using the john,” she replied. “So if you boys will excuse me?” She turned and moved toward a curtained partition near the back of the room.
Thus dismissed, they left to return to their own accommodations, to prepare themselves for the long, difficult climb that would begin when they bade farewell to Ospenspri on the morrow. By now the descriptions of the city’s saviors had been widely circulated among the citizenry, and they found that they were the center of polite attention as they strolled up the busy streets.
Most of it was focused on Clothahump, whose shell seemed to swell as he soaked up the stares and the occasional mild applause. The wizard wasn’t one to shrink from the opportunity to bask in the glow of his own radiance. Sorbl drifted along overhead, flying a straighter course than usual, sobered by his recent brief incarnation as a subsurface water dweller. So Mudge was able to sidle up close to Jon-Tom to chat without fear of being overheard.
“Tell me true, mate; wot do you think our chances are?”
“Chances of wot—I mean, of what, Mudge?”
“Don’t play games with me, lad. We’ve been through too much together. You know wot I means. Our chances o’ goosin’ this perbabutater, or wotever it turns out to be, back to where it belongs?”
“According to Clothahump it will leave of its own accord once the restraints restricting its movement have been removed. The danger we face is from whoever is keeping it trapped in our world. Since I’ve no idea what we’re up against there, I can’t very well tell you what the odds are of our defeating it.”
Mudge looked crestfallen. “I can always depend on you for encouragement and succor, mate.”
“We’ll make out all right, Mudge. We always have.”
“That’s wot worries me. I keep worryi’ that the police are goi’ to catch up with me one o’ these days. Or an old lover. Or someone who lost to me at cards. But the thing I worry most about catchi’ up with old Mudge is the bloody law o’ averages, and I fear that on this trip it may be dogging me tail a mite too near for comfort.”
“Come on. Where’s the optimistic, always cheerful Mudge I know best?”
“Back down the road to Lynchbany about a hundred leagues or so.”
“Consider this: On our previous journeys we’ve had to deal with whatever danger threatened us by ourselves. Clothahump’s with us this time. Between his knowledge and my spellsinging we can handle anything that’s thrown against us.”
“Some’ow that don’t inspire me confidence, mate.” Mudge was silent for a long moment, then jerked a thumb back over his shoulder. “Wot about our ladyship back there? She appears to ’ave as strong a back as she does a tongue, but she’s getti’ on in years. We’ll find ourselves in a fine pickle if the old tart ups and quits on us in the middle o’ the back o’ beyond. I’m not one for hauli’ a pile o’ supplies up a steep grade.”
“Dormas will be fine. And we’re all getting on in years, Mudge.” Jon-Tom spoke from the rarefied heights of one who has yet to turn twenty-five. “I’ve found that this world tends to age you rapidly.”
“It does if you lead the kind o’ life we’ve led this past year or so,” Mudge readily agreed. “I expect you’re right about the old darlin’, but I can’t
’elp wishi’ we ’ad a bit more o’ the mundane ’elp o’ extra arms and fighters. Pity you can’t run out and find that dragon friend o’ yours.”
“What, Falameezar? The last time I saw him he was swimming steadily southward from Quasequa. You know how far that is from here. And he wouldn’t do too well up in the Plateau country. He likes warm water and warmer air, and from what Clothahump’s told me of where we’re headed, we’re going to find precious little of either.”
“Cold won’t bother me. We otters are as at ’ome in cold temperatures as hot. ’Tis you I worry about, lad.”
“Why, Mudge? I appreciate the concern.”
“Concern, ’ell. If your buns freeze to the ground, that’s one less sword arm I’ve got standi’ at my side, not to mention the loss o’ your spellsingin’, which some’ow does seem to work from time to time. You ’aven’t a bit o’ decent fur on you to protect you from the cold.”
Jon-Tom stared straight ahead. “I’ll be okay as long as we beat the onset of winter in the mountains.”
“And if we don’t?”
“Then you can haul my frozen carcass back here, dump it in a hundred-gallon martini, and drink to my demise. You worry too much. I feel as strong as an ox.”
“Aye, and with a brain to match. I wish I were feeli’ as well meself.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m just not feeli’ meself is all.”
“It couldn’t have anything to do with your life-style by any chance?”
“I admit that ’as occurred to me, mate. So I’ve decided to cut down on wenchin’, eatin’, and drinkin’.”
“Your timing’s good. You won’t have the chance to indulge to excess on any of those on this trip.”
“Aye, that’s me point. That’s why I don’t feel well. Because I’m goi’ to ’ave to cut down on wenchin’, and eatin’—”
“And drinking,” Jon-Tom finished for him, shaking his head. “And I thought there might be something seriously wrong with you.” Disgusted, he increased his stride.
“Why, mate,” Mudge asked, looking honestly puzzled as he hurried to keep up with his tall friend, “wot could be worse than that?”
“Than what?” Jon-Tom snapped at him.
“Than moderation o’ course.”
VI
TRUE TO HER WORD, Dormas not only kept up with them as they left Ospenspri behind the following morning but, despite her heavy load, was impatient to take the lead. So frequently did she make the request that Clothahump had to remind her of his own advanced age and of the fact that two legs, no matter how strong, could never keep pace with four.
Jon-Tom was sure she was showing what she could do if she wanted to, in order to establish herself as a qualified member of the expedition right from the start. In any case, after the first long, hard day of walking, there were no more comments about her age or hauling ability from Mudge or anyone else. Jon-Tom recalled her initial reaction when they’d finished loading her outside the inn.
“Is that all? Hell, you boys don’t need a hinny to haul this stuff for you. A couple of pack rats would’ve done as well.”
Despite her admonition against riding, she did allow Sorbl to rest from time to time atop the uppermost sack. Resting, she explained, was not riding. Jon-Tom got a kick out of watching the owl bob back and forth atop the mountain of supplies, clinging to a strap with his clawed feet and looking like nothing else but a feathered hood ornament. He would ride that way for a moment or two before rising toward the clouds to resume his aerial patrol of the terrain below.
Dormas’s endurance had a salutary effect on Clothahump’s companions as well. They were spared the usual unending litany of complaints about the wizard’s sore feet, his rheumatism, and the weight of his shell. Instead, he held his peace, ground his beak in silence, and said nothing as they traversed the difficult places. Jon-Tom was glad of his long legs. Mudge possessed neither long legs, wizardry determination, wings, or an extra pair of walking limbs. He compensated for these deficiencies with typically unflagging otterish energy.
North of Ospenspri the woods were mostly uninhabited. As they climbed higher they began to lose the Belltrees themselves, along with the more familiar oaks and sycamores. Evergreens took their place. Jon-Tom thought he recognized sugar and piñon pine as well as blue spruce. There were also more exotic varieties, including one stalwart growth whose three-inch-long needles were as sharp as a porcupine’s quills. Mudge identified the most dangerous growths and led his companions carefully around them. They couldn’t harm the armored Clothahump, but a casual misstep could turn any of the rest of the marchers into green pincushions.
With Sorbl scouting overhead and Clothahump relentless in his examination of the forest floor, Jon-Tom found he was able to relax and enjoy the hike. The evergreens, the bare rock, the pinecones that littered the ground reminded him of Oregon or Montana.
As they climbed out of the lowland forest onto the Plateau, he amused himself by kicking twigs and pinecones out of their path. He was about to boot aside a particularly large cone when he found himself knocked to the ground. He rolled over, furious and confused.
“What’s the big idea, Mudge?” The otter had tackled him from behind. Carefully he checked his precious duar, let out a sigh of relief when he’d concluded his anxious inspection. “You could have busted this!”
“Better it than you, mate.” The otter nudged the feather that adorned his cap back over his head. It had fallen forward over one eye when he’d jumped at Jon-Tom’s legs. Clothahump, Sorbl, and Dormas stood nearby, watching.
Mudge indicated the huge pinecone, careful not to touch it. “Wot about you, Your Wizardship? You recognize this charmi’ little gift o’ the forest primeval?”
Clothahump squinted through his glasses at the seemingly innocent cone that lay in the middle of the path. “Your eyes are as sharp as your tongue, river rat.” He lifted his gaze to Jon-Tom. “You should be thanking your friend instead of shouting at him.”
“For what?” Jon-Tom was still irritated, still saw no reason for the abruptness of the otter’s action. After all, it was only an ordinary—
He halted in mid-thought. He’d learned little enough of this world in the time he’d been marooned in it, but one thing he had learned early on was that there was little in it that could be defined as ordinary.
“Everybody loves pine nuts. Some o’ me near relations will do just about anything for a handful.” Mudge stood surveying the cone. “I’ve been nibbli’ on ’em meself as the occasion permitted. ’Tis a fine and ’andy snack for travelers in a ’urry like ourselves.”
Jon-Tom was brushing dirt from the sleeves of his indigo shirt. “What’s so special about this one?”
“The trees ’ave their ways o’ maki’ sure that at least some of the seeds they scatter aren’t disturbed by ’ungry passersby, mate, be they intelligent like meself or dumb like the forest browsers and yourself.” Leaning forward, he slowly inspected the cone from every conceivable angle before gingerly picking it up in both hands. Turning, he showed it to the others, handling it as delicately as a hollow egg.
Jon-Tom leaned close. “Looks like a normal pinecone to me.”
“O’ course it does, lad. ’Tis supposed to. But look ’ere.” He pointed with a finger, not touching the cone. “See there? The top ring o’ seed covers is missin’, wot? It didn’t get knocked off in the fall, and it weren’t eaten by some traveler. The tree pulled it out when it dropped the cone.”
“I still don’t understand. So what?”
“So this is wot, mate. Wot ’appens if you picks it up and tries to make a meal o’ its seeds or kicks it playful like.” He turned, drew back his arm, and threw the cone as far as he could over a pile of boulders.
There was a second of silence followed by a substantial explosion. Jon-Tom flinched. Orange flame seared the sky, shadowed by black smoke. As the smoke began to dissipate Mudge turned to face him, paws on hips.
“Just a discouragi’ shock
to the would-be seed-eater. It would’ve blown your bloomi’ leg off, mate.”
“I—I didn’t know, Mudge.” His throat was dry as he stared at the fading smoke. “It’s a damn good thing the pinecones on my world aren’t like that.”
Mudge resumed the march, falling in step behind Clothahump and Dormas. “Oh, I expect there’re some like that everywhere, lad.”
“No, you’re wrong about that. I’ve never heard of anyone being killed by an exploding pinecone.”
The otter cocked a challenging eye at him. “Don’t you ’ave curious folk wot goes a-traveli’ through woods like these and never comes out again?”
“Of course we do. But they perish from hunger or thirst or snakebite or something like that. Not from stepping on exploding pinecones.”
“’Ow do you know, mate, if you never find ’em?”
“We find most of them.”
The otter was persistent. “But wot about those who just up a’ disappear?”
“Well, they’re presumed to have fallen off a mountainside or died in a cave or something.”
“Ha! Ow does you find the pieces o’ someone who’s been blown to bits in a heavily wooded area? The scavengers would clean up wot didn’t get vaporized.”
Jon-Tom lifted his eyes to stare resolutely straight ahead. “This is a ridiculous conversation, and I refuse to continue with it.”
“Are there lots o’ pine trees in your world, mate? Trees like this?”
“Mudge”—Jon-Tom sighed—“there are millions of them, and many of them have been cut down en masse for lumber and such. I never heard of anyone being blown up while working as a logger.”
“D’you think the trees are bleedi’ stupid? They know they can’t stop a whole lot o’ folks worki’ in unison. So they tries to pick ’em off one at a time when nobody else is around to see.”
“I’m not listening to this anymore!” So saying, he stepped off to one side and began picking the occasional ripe redberry, popping it angrily into his mouth. The tart juice did nothing to sweeten his disposition. A quick glance showed Clothahump smiling at him, and that made him even angrier.
The Paths of the Perambulator: A Spellsinger Adventure (Book Five) (Spellsinger Series) Page 10
