Chorus Skating (22 page)

When it became clear that the danger had been avoided, the Lieutenant yelled “Back oars!” and the winded soldiers changed position to bring them to a stop. Jon-Tom could now see that the peculiar floating wagon was being drawn by a pair of immense white salamanders. These were possessed of a natural phosphorescence which when observed from a distance could easily give the impression of a single sluggish, hulking monster.

Moonlight added to the effect, revealing that their flesh was semitransparent. Their vital organs could be seen within their bodies, quivering and pulsing, arteries and heart a distinct, dull maroon. Nearly blind, with tiny, rudimentary black eyes, they were dependent for direction on whomever held their reins.

As the travelers watched, the driver brought his team and vehicle to a halt. It floated alongside, sitting above the waterline and reeking like a bargeload of year-old eggs.

The golden emperor tamarin who occupied the driver's seat was slightly smaller than Mudge. What appeared to be an enormous walrus mustache was actually a natural feature of the species. Separating bright, intelligent eyes and tiny nose from a small mouth, the furry white crescent gave him the look of an aged munchkin. The effect was further enhanced by his embroidered and fringed vest, pants, and the gold-braided pillbox cap he wore cocked to one side. Jon-Tom thought he looked altogether too sophisticated and colorful for their drab surroundings.

Both delicate, long-fingered hands reached skyward as the terrified simian faced them. “I surrender; please don't hurt me! Take my stock if you will, but leave me in peace. I have a family, six little tamarins all my own, and—”

“Crikey, guv, quit your babblin'!” A disgusted Mudge set his bow aside. This long-haired nocturnal visitor was no threat, except perhaps to the olfactory nerves. His craft stunk prodigiously.

“What manner of transport is that?” Naike studied the floating wagon with undisguised interest.

“Manner?” The driver cautiously lowered his hands. With their enormous gaping mouths the two salamanders were cropping peacefully at the grass and reeds. “Do you mean my team?”

“No.” Delicately holding his nose, Jon-Tom put a foot up on the gunwale. “They're obvious enough. What's less apparent is the means through which your wagon rides above the water.”

“Oh, that. It rests upon a sack of swamp gas.” He blinked wide eyes. “You don't intend to rob or kill me?”

“While I wouldn't discourage a little excitement,” Mudge replied, “the sorry facts o' the matter are that at the moment we ain't interested even in a spot o' recreational maimin'.”

“Swamp gas.” Jon-Tom examined the luminous envelope. Watery ripples spread from its base. “I've never heard of it being utilized in this fashion. In fact, I've never heard of it being used in
any
fashion.”

“It's quite buoyant.” The relieved tamarin was eager to explain. “The trick is in the accumulating.”

“Any drawbacks to its use?” Naike inquired professionally.

“Only a truly awful smell. But the benefits outweigh such a minor awkwardness.”

Seshenshe held a hand tightly over her snout. “That iss only your opinion, traveler.”

“I know.” He whistled softly. “Traveling atop a cloud of stink and decay can be offputting to some customers. But it's the best way to cross flat, shallow waters. Once back on solid ground, I simply open the sack and let the gas disperse. Some of the smell lingers, but only for a little while.”

“Who are you?” the Lieutenant demanded to know.

Putting his left hand to his chest, the driver bowed from the waist. His smile was barely visible beneath the prodigious mustache. Jon-Tom wondered at his age. The flamboyant facial decor made it hard to estimate.

“I am Silimbar the merchant.”

“And what do you trade in?” Naike further inquired.

The tamarin blinked. With first dawn muting the ominous phosphorescent blush of the salamanders, their aspect began to change from frightening to inoffensive.

“Why, whatever's available. That's what a trader does.”

“Does?” The Lieutenant frowned uncertainly.

“Takes advantage. I buy what I can and sell what I can. Can I interest you in anything?” His eyes fixed on the princesses, who now lined the flatbottom's railing with curiosity.

As the shifting chords hung nearby and sang objections to the interruption, Jon-Tom noted the wagon's triple axles and six brass-bound wooden wheels. Sturdily built, it obviously was designed to handle more difficult terrain than the delta presented.

An ever-suspicious Mudge crowded the rail. “'Ere now, guv—'ow can we be sure that it 'tain't you wot's filled with swamp gas?”

“You are welcome to come and inspect my stock. Besides, there are many of you and I am alone.” Something new had replaced the fear that had shone in his eyes when he'd first drawn alongside their boat. Something Jon-Tom had seen frequently before … in Mudge's own expression.

Avarice.

“A trader!” Umagi clapped her huge hands together. “Do you suppose he has any
real
cosmetics?”

“Lipsticks and rouges.” A gleam was blossoming in Ansibette's beautiful blue eyes. “Eye shadow and blush.”

“Fur groomers and moisturizers.” Pivver's tone was appropriately reverent. “Combs and brushes.”

Now the tamarin's grin was wide enough to see, even beneath the overhang of his golden mustache. “Why, I carry many such items, as a matter of course. Won't you come aboard and tell me if you think any of them are up to your exalted standards?”

There was a mass feminine rush to port. In vain, Naike tried to stem the tide.

“Your Highnesses! I beg of you to use forethought and discretion. This is a laborious rescue we are engaged in, not a shopping expedition.”

He might as well have tried to channel a tidal wave, or mute the thunder. Knowing better (after all, they had been long-time married), Jon-Tom and Mudge hastened to get out of the way. Both thought the Lieutenant did well to avoid being knocked overboard.

The cushy capsule of swamp gas dimpled beneath their feet as one by one the princesses climbed aboard the merchant's vehicle. Silimbar graciously descended from his seat to lend each of them a hand, though he nearly balked when confronted with Umagi's enveloping paw.

When the last had transferred from the flatbottom, he showed them to his craft's copious interior. Left behind, Naike fretted openly.

“Aw, let 'em enjoy themselves awhile.” Luxuriating in the space resulting from the princess's temporary absence, Heke stretched his lean form out lengthwise on an empty bench and sighed. “You can't do anything about it anyway, sir.”

“Apparently not.” Naike stared uneasily at the wagon. Laugher and squeals of delight resounded from its well-lit interior. “I can't imagine what they'll offer in trade.”

“For a presumed officer you miss a lot o' details.” Mudge scuffed at the deck with one booted foot. “Each of 'em is wearin' at least a bit o' jewelry. I expect a ring 'ere, a bracelet there would buy a good deal o' face flack.”

“You're right; I was not thinking.”

Mudge gazed eastward. The rising sun outlined the taller reeds and occasional small tree, turning the water electric, gleaming off open, still patches that became like thin sheets of mica.

“Don't be too 'ard on yourself, guv. Takin' notice o' such things used to be in a way part o' me old profession.”

Sitting on the deck, Pauko put his hands behind his head, closed his eyes, and let the new sun warm his face.

“Nice to have a little room for a while. Nice to smell nothing but mongoose. Well, mostly nothing but mongoose. No offense.” He smiled apologetically over at Jon-Tom and Mudge.

“Forget it, guv.” The otter jerked a thumb in the spellsinger's direction. “There's times when I think not 'avin' much o' a sense o' smell 'tis a blessin'. But not
many
times.”

Jon-Tom was leaning over the side of the boat, left arm extended as he poked and prodded at the supportive sack of swamp gas. “I've never seen anything like this.”

Mudge frowned. “Wot, like swamp gas?”

“No,” replied his friend restively. “Like this envelope, or bag, or whatever it is. It feels like plastic, but I've never seen plastic here before. I can't imagine where it was manufactured or how this trader came by it.”

“That's your answer right there, mate.” As always, the otter was happy to explain. “Beyond this delta, beyond this 'ere Mashupro Town we're cruisin' toward, there's a bloody 'ole new ocean. Who knows wot marvels lie on its far side, where unfamiliar waves lap unknown shores?”

Jon-Tom glanced back. “Such eloquence is unlike you, Mudge.”

The otter nodded. “Read that in a book, I did. Wouldn't want to disappoint you, mate.”

“Over the years I've come to expect wonders rather than be surprised by them.” Jon-Tom prodded the envelope again, his fingers sinking into the thin, flexible substance. “But plastic? Polyethylene? Pliable polymers?”

Mudge spat over the side. “Too much
peein'
for me, mate. Don't strain your brain.”

Naike's ears were cocked toward the odd wagon. “It sounds as if the ladies are enjoying themselves.” He'd sheathed his weapon, as had his companions. The only sharp-edged device the tamarin had flaunted was an acute sense of business.

“I wonder,” Jon-Tom mused aloud, “what customers this Silimbar was hoping to find in a place like this.”

“Maybe 'e shaved a coin or two off the wrong bloke in Mashupro an' 'ad to leave in a 'urry.” Mudge considered the wagon thoughtfully. “'Avin' been compelled to vacate certain venues a mite precipitously in me own time, I could sympathize with that.”

Whoops, squeals, and giggles continued to issue from the wagon's interior, indicating that the modest orgy of consumerism was continuing unabated. Radiating softly, the cluster of chords hovered near the top of the flatbottom's mast, away from the feminine cacophony.

Mudge shook his head slowly. “'Ear that? The rowdy manifestations o' a disease for which there's no known cure.”

“The supplicants are in their temple,” Jon-Tom agreed. “It's not expected that we worship with them—only that we leave them to practice their rituals in peace.”

“A female religion,” the otter added.

“Why, Mudge—where I come from that might be considered a sexist remark.”

“Sexist remark? Wot's that, mate? Some clever label somebody invented for coverin' up uncomfortable truths? Meself, I don't think 'tis broad enough. So to speak.”

Dawn sifted steadily into morning, the temperature rising in tandem with the sun. Humidity rose in invisible waves from the shallow marshland, until Jon-Tom felt as if he, his companions, and every other living thing were no more than individual ingredients in a vast, simmering soup.

Huddling as best they could in the shade of the luffing sail, the soldiers napped in the boat's stern. Having catnapped for an hour, Jon-Tom had resumed his examination of the trader's craft. Mudge had borrowed Heke's halberd and was probing the reeds and water plants for freshwater clams and crawfish.

Eventually the princesses began to file back aboard. With the aid of the tamarin's stock, they had made great strides in restoring themselves to their original appearance, though not all of the spellsinger's inadvertent handiwork was so easily overcome.

Aleaukauna was the last to return, accepting Lieutenant Naike's preferred hand gracefully. Grumbling softly, the soldiers roused themselves and made ready to get under way.

“A happy encounter for all concerned, it would seem.” The Lieutenant was correctly formal with the merchant.

Eyes shining, Silimbar squatted in the driver's seat and nodded enthusiastically. “Yes indeedy.” In the intensifying light of morning the ghostly phosphorescence of the swamp gas and-the yoked salamanders was much reduced, lending to the entire outfit a sickly rather than threatening air.

“Now then. If you ladies are ready, I'll thank you all to come back aboard. I've made room and you'll be comfortable enough.”

“It is kind of you to offer transportation,” Ansibette told the tamarin, “but I think we should stay together on our boat, at least until we reach Mashupro.” A small necklace of blue refracters now encircled her neck, Jon-Tom noticed, and in turn took up the creamy glow of her skin.

“It's not to Mashupro that I'm going. Or that you are going.” The tamarin's voice had deepened. A sinister air seemed to rise about him: swamp gas of a different kind. “You might as well be first.” He extended a paw in Ansibette's direction.

She was puzzled rather than intimidated by the much smaller primate. “Why should any of us go with you?”

“Because of the terms of the IOUs that you signed, of course.” Reaching behind his seat, he brought forth a sheaf of papers smeared with small print and fanned them in her direction. A sick feeling began to knot in the pit of Jon-Tom's belly, as if he'd inhaled a live minnow. Or too much swamp gas. A faint efflorescence not unlike that which clung to the slimy skin of the salamanders emanated from the ink-smeared seal affixed to the bottom of each paper.

It echoed the unwholesome light which was now burning in Silimbar's eyes.

“I am calling in the documents each of you signed. Now and here.” With his free hand he beckoned again. “Some laws are universal.” He rattled the sheets. “These are legal and binding in any land bordering the Farraglean.”

“How can they be IOUss?” wondered Seshenshe. “We've already paid you, with our own gold and jewelss.” The earrings in her high-tufted ears jingled musically. “We've kept only what wass necessary to meet minimum sstandardss of appearance.”

“Oh, you may retain the rest of your artificial adornments. I have baubles enough. No, it is your actual selves I want. It is yourselves that I claim.”