Chorus Skating (9 page)

“Why, for our time and efforts, of course,” said the ratal. “One gold piece each, or you do not pass.”

Jon-Tom considered. Like all his kind, the ratal looked sufficiently ferocious, but Jon-Tom overtopped him by a considerable margin. Once you got past the shrew's intimidating face, the rest of the rodent was decidedly unthreatening. He and Mudge had faced far worse many times over.

“Not to take another step if I was you, wouldn't I.” The shrew gestured with a sword that was even shorter than the otter's.

“Why shouldn't I, guv?” Mudge inquired.

“Well.” The shrew looked uncertain. “Put a lot of work into this gate, have we.”

Jon-Tom examined the barrier. “Doesn't look like much to me. A pole, a couple of posts, some hardware.”

“Ah, but there is much you are not seeing.” The ratal smiled knowingly. “For example, there is the cleverly concealed trench whose bottom is lined with poison-tipped stakes.”

Glancing reflexively at the ground, Jon-Tom thought he could make out where the surface had been disturbed and possibly camouflaged.

“Then there are the individual deep pits which are filled with a carnivorous moss that grows in the hollows of certain swamp trees. It will grab you and suck you down to a horrid demise. Behind these lie a second concealed ditch, not as deep as the first but wide and difficult to cross. Lastly there is the hidden moat-pool stocked with Zazaipa fish, which we have collected at great risk to ourselves. Should you stumble in among them, they will strip the flesh from your bones before you can turn to swim clear.” The ratal concluded with a grunt of satisfaction.

“Should you somehow manage to pass over and survive all that, which is very much doubtful, you would then have to deal with us.” He gestured with the two-pronged spear. “While we may not possess the aspect of great warriors, should you somehow manage to get this far, I suspect you will at that point no longer be in sufficient condition to fight off a mewling cub.”

As he studied the ground before them, Jon-Tom leaned over to whisper to his companion. “Your eyes are sharper than mine. What do you see?”

“There's no question the earth 'tween 'ere an' that bleedin' gate 'as been extensively worked. I can see signs o' the first trench and their moss-packed pits. Given that, there ain't no reason to doubt the presence o' their camouflaged fishbowl.”

Jon-Tom grimly eyed the seemingly innocent trail ahead. “So that's it. Pay them their gold or they won't show you the way through.”

“Aye. 'Tis an old racket. One I've practiced on occasion meself, in the old days. But it don't take an expert to sniff the flaw in this particular setup.” With that he started confidently forward.

Startled, Jon-Tom reached to restrain the otter. But Mudge skipped effortlessly out of his friend's reach.

“Beware the trench filled with poisoned stakes!” the ratal called out warningly. “Beware the pits from which there be no escape!”

Turning sharply to his right, Mudge nonchalantly continued on his way. Keeping a careful eye on the ground, he continued on until he'd reached the edge of the first bog. Turning there, he resumed his advance, occasionally making use of a sodden, half-submerged log, until he was past the gate, whereupon he angled back the way he'd started until he was standing a few yards from the ratal and shrew. They eyed him wordlessly as he ambled over to the pivot and calmly placed his weight against the post, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Far be it from me to tell anyone else their bloomin' business, but it strikes me as 'ow you two might do well to give a thought to considerin' another line o' work.”

Without warning, the enraged ratal whirled to smack the shrew across its long, narrow muzzle. “You idiot! I told you this wouldn't work!”

The shrew held his ground, inclining his head to glare up at his enraged associate. “Don't at me yell! Your damned execution of the idea it was!”

This truth muted the ratal's fury. “I admit there were ramifications I failed to consider.”

“I'm curious, I am,” said Mudge as Jon-Tom, following in the otter's tracks, strode purposefully over to the bog's edge and around the far end of the barrier, retracing his friend's steps. “Are you makin' a livin' at this?”

Ignoring the shrew's offended chatter, the ratal turned tiredly to the otter. “We do on occasion encounter a traveler who is sufficiently uncertain or intimidated to pay up, though this usually requires some bargaining down of the fee. Sadly, most who pass this way are experienced travelers like yourselves, who soon note the slight flaw in our situation.”

“Don't take much experience,” commented Mudge. “Just someone with 'alf a spoonful o' brains.”

The ratal glanced back at his associate. “Will you shut up?” Looking rebellious, the shrew subsided.

“What do you from me expect, Phembloch?
I am
a shrew.”

Nodding, the ratal bestowed a newly resigned gaze on the approaching Jon-Tom. “Since we cannot extort any passage money from you, can we perhaps sell you some information? Or have you come this way before?” Now that their scam had failed miserably, Phembloch was the soul of manners.

“No 'arm in confessin' that we're new to this country.” Anxious as always to be on the way, a cluster of note-motes kept buzzing his face. The otter irritably waved them away. “We're followin' a tune, as it were, an' while 'tis heartily confident of itself, it ain't particularly free with detail.”

“Ah!” The ratal smiled. “Then perhaps we can sell you something of value.”

“Perhaps, guv. Though I 'ave me doubts you know anythin' worth two gold pieces.”

The ratal made placating movements with his hands. “No no, we will be fair.”

“You all right, Mudge?” asked Jon-Tom as he arrived to join them.

“Me? Why, we're gettin' along famously, mate.”

The shrew eyed the human, who towered over him. His tone was apologetic. “Can't for trying blame us, can't you?”

Now that they were no longer threatening the travelers with extortion and various exotic varieties of agonizing death, Phembloch and the shrew, Tack, proved to be fairly congenial hosts. Disappearing into the lesser hut, Tack returned moments later with cups and a big pot of some aromatic, locally gathered tea that had been thickly sweetened with wild cane extract. This was complemented by a hand-carved tray of transparent mulwara wood piled high with small yellow and white cakes. The shrew offered them together with a degree of embarrassment.

“Actually, not much on extortion and slaughter am I.” He looked suddenly wistful. “A grand and elegant bakery to open my dream is.”

“Definitely in the wrong business.” Mudge helped himself to a sweet, gooey cake.

Subsequent to some good-natured haggling, the travelers did agree to pay their hosts a small sum in return for information about the country which lay before them. Not that such information was vital, but Jon-Tom felt rather sorry for their inept, would-be extortionists. Mudge, of course, decried the notion. To the otter, giving away money that could otherwise be retained was worse than giving blood.

“You can always make more blood,” he told his friend scornfully. “Gold's a tougher proposition.”

“As always you're the soul of generosity, Mudge.”

“Only when I'm the recipient, mate. Only when I'm the recipient.”

“There's no one lives deeper in the swamps than Tack and I,” the ratal was assuring them.

“Who'd want to?” Mudge groused quietly.

“That's a valid observation.” Jon-Tom sipped his thick tea. “Why
do
you live way out here?” He suppressed a smile. “Surely not just to exploit the commercial potential.”

Ratal and shrew exchanged a glance. “We somewhat wore out our welcome in the townships to the south and had to seek refuge as well as a fresh start. We are new at this enterprise and, as you have seen, less than proficient at it.”

“Bloody right you are.” Mudge put his plate aside and leaned forward. “Wot you 'ave to do is not so much develop these 'ere elaborate but useless traps as plant in travelers' minds the fear that—”

“Mudge!” Jon-Tom eyed the otter reprovingly.

“Sorry, mate.” Mudge leaned back. “You know 'ow the old brain-pan works. Can't resist sharin' the experience o' a lifetime. Besides, it ain't like they're out to maim an' kill. An' they do keep the trail nice an' clean.”

Tack abruptly jumped up, sloshing tea as he brushed frantically at the efflorescent motes which had snuck up to chime curiously around his tail.

“What manner of sorcery this is?”

“It's not really sorcery.” Jon-Tom helped himself to another of the excellent cakes. “Just music.”

“More than just that.” Eyeing the drifting cloud of sound warily, the shrew resumed his seat. “I don't like apparitions. Control them you cannot, and they never pay.”

“Apparitions rarely do,” Jon-Tom agreed.

Mudge finally set his plate aside. “Time we were on our way. Wot's the lay o' the land we're about to pass through? Green fields and deep, clear streams, right?”

“Green, anyway,” replied the ratal dryly. “What be your intended destination?”

“We don't really know, guv.” The otter eyed the drifting nimbus of notes. “We're sort o' followin' the muse, you might say.”

“It keeps fairly steady to a southerly heading.” Jon-Tom tracked the glittering cloud as it shimmered and chimed. “It wants us to help it do something, but we've no idea what.”

“Great strangeness,” murmured the ratal. “And you say you've followed it all the way from the other side of the Tailaroam? I've heard of that land, but never have been there. Tell me: You do this for what end?”

Jon-Tom pondered. “To satisfy our own curiosity. To see what's so important to a piece of music.”

“Now why would music the help of a person need?” Tack's gray brow furrowed.

“Actually, we haven't given it that much thought,” Jon-Tom admitted. “It just feels right to me. In one sense I've already spent much of my life following music.” He nodded in the direction of the cloud. “This is just the first time I've been able to do it literally.”

The shrew was nodding vigorously. “Understand now I do. You both crazy are. It explains much.”

“Be quiet, Tack.” Phembloch shifted himself. “If you continue on the way you have been going, you will soon find yourselves in the Karrakas Delta. A land of shallow swamps, aimless rivers, and few inhabitants. An excellent place in which to lose oneself. Which is why Tack and I came here.”

“What about this road?” Jon-Tom asked.

“Road?” The ratal chuckled, a deep, growling sound. “There is no road here. This is merely a high place in the swamp, a natural pathway. It splits and divides and disappears a hundred times long before the end of the delta is reached. Furthermore, the delta is full of dangers both foreign and exotic. You might do better to return now whence you came.”

“There's no land we're not familiar with, guv,” said Mudge pridefully. “Me warbling companion an' I 'ave seen much in our wanderin's. Not that I'm particularly lookin' forward to any difficult confrontations, but we'd be pretty 'ard to surprise, we would.”

“If your luck is as strong as your confidence, you might survive,” Phembloch conceded. “What will you do when you reach the head of the delta?”

Jon-Tom blinked. “What do you mean, the head of the delta?”

The ratal evinced surprise. “Why, the delta drains all the tributaries of the Karrakasan River, which eventually empties into the Farraglean Sea.”

“A new ocean.” Jon-Tom looked to Mudge. “I know only of the Glittergeist.” The otter nodded, indicating that for him it was the same.

“I have heard of this Glittergeist,” murmured Phembloch, “but having never visited it myself, I cannot say whether it is greater or less in extent than the Farraglean. I only know that the Farraglean cannot be seen across, nor crossed in a day. Being not fond of the sea myself, I've never had the desire or wish to explore its reaches.

“Consider yourselves fortunate enough to reach Mashupro Towne, which is the main port at the farthest tip of the delta. To do that will mean avoiding fearsome creatures and dangerous vegetation enough.”

“Not to mention cheerfully extortionate locals,” Mudge added pleasantly.

“That as well.” Phembloch was not in the least offended. “Do you know of Mashupro?”

“Never heard of it,” Jon-Tom admitted. “Never heard of anything in this part of the world.”

“Not a big place, but unusual it is,” said Tack. “Be there now we would, except—” He looked up at the ratal and quickly subsided.

“The delta is the abode of oddness,” Phembloch continued. “A place of mystery and wonder.”

“Stinks, too.” Mudge wrinkled his nose.

“How do we get to this Mashupro?” asked Jon-Tom.

The ratal leaned back and considered. “It lies by the last of the land. When you can no longer walk southward but must start to swim, then you will be there.”

“We have to follow the music.”

“Then pray it leads you there.” Tack sniffed. “Mashupro is the only town of any size within the delta. The only place of any sophistication. If you hope some portion of the Farraglean to cross, you must there transport find.”

Phembloch was nodding assent. “Elsewhere within the delta you will find only tiny villages inhabited by ignorant, prejudiced, backward folk who make their living from the wetlands. They will be of no help to you and can on occasion prove dangerous.”

Jon-Tom gave voice to a sudden idea. “Would you guide us to Mashupro? For a fee, of course.”

The ratal didn't hesitate. “We cannot. We have raised up an enterprise here that needs attending to, as you have so straightforwardly pointed out. Nor are we in the guiding business. Besides which there are certain places within the delta, not to mention Mashupro, where our presence would be greeted with something other than unrestrained joy. Where it would, in point of fact, generate hysterical and entirely unwarranted hostility on the part of the inhabitants.