Authors: Alan Dean Foster
“I thought I did pretty good, under the circumstances. Save your sarcasm for Silimbar, if he comes back.”
“'E won't, mate. Not unless 'e's a better swimmer than I think 'e is.”
“A craft most wondrous.” Pivver was on hands and knees, examining the smooth metal floor of the swamp buggy. “Never have I seen its like.”
“And it runss on thunder.” Seshenshe was equally impressed.
“The spellsinger has caged a storm.” Aleaukauna indicated the metal basket which protected the passengers from the propeller.
Ansibette wrinkled her perfect nose. “What is that strange odor?”
“Aviation fuel.” Jon-Tom didn't try to explain. “Magic fluid.”
Mudge flopped back on one of the old cushions, his feet dangling off the deck. “This'll carry us to Mashupro in double-quick time.”
“
If
I can get it started again.” Inspecting the hulking old aircraft engine, Jon-Tom prayed he wouldn't be required to perform any on-the-spot repairs. Mechanically, he was about as handy as a palsied sloth.
“It'ss so loud.” The stink of diesel overwhelmed Seshenshe's sensitive nose. “Can't you make the sstorm work more quietly?”
“I'm afraid not,” Jon-Tom told her. “A storm is a storm. I've only managed to, uh, tame this one enough to push us.”
“Better us than our luck.” Mudge was still grinning. “You don't mean to say you're in less than complete control o' this sled, mate?”
“How'd you like to try your hand at steering it? No,” he added quickly as the otter perked up, “forget I said that.” There were simpler ways to commit suicide than by giving Mudge control of all that horsepower.
“Then if you know wot you're doin', mate, let's say farewell to this 'appy bit o' sodden real estate an' be on our way, wot?”
“Why not?” Ascending to the pilot's seat, Jon-Tom settled himself back against the old canvas cushion and peered down at Naike. As if sensing they were on the verge of making some real progress, the lost chords swirled enthusiastically about his head. “Continue due south?”
“For now.” The Lieutenant remained wary. “We'll have to go carefully or we will miss the landmarks we noted on our way in.”
“Right.” Jon-Tom reached down for the key. “Everybody better take a seat or find something to hang on to.”
“Oi, everybody! Grab 'old o' your tails!” Mudge tugged his feathered cap down tight over his ears.
“I've never seen metal like this.” Karaukul was fingering one of the aluminum braces that supported his seat. “It would make good battle shields.”
Holding his breath, Jon-Tom turned the ignition key. A dyspeptic groan rose from the bowels of the massive P&W. It coughed, belched black smoke, choked, coughed again, and rumbled to life. The propeller twitched, turned, and began to spin.
With the princesses squealing and screaming in delight, the swamp buggy took off southward. Caught by the wind, all the silk and satin aboard streamed sternward, giving the boat the look of a runaway boutique.
Heke chose the very prow of the craft to sit on, letting the brisk wind blow through his fur and ears. As the waters of the Karrakas slid beneath the vibrating hull, everyone aboard felt cleaner and more optimistic than they had in many days.
AS WAS SO OFTEN
the case with Jon-Tom's spellsongs, the confidence expressed in his efforts was premature. The swamp buggy ran for all the rest of that day and well into the following afternoon before it choked, sputtered, and died. They had covered miles enough to reduce the threat of Silimbar to a discomfiting memory but were still a long way from Mashupro. The marshland they found themselves drifting through was little different from that they had left behind.
“Bloody big place, this Karrakas.” Mudge surveyed the endless stretches of reed and sawgrass thoughtfully.
“What'ss happened?” Seshenshe wondered.
“Yes, why have we stopped?” Umagi shifted from her seat near the back of the buggy. Relieved of her weight, the boat's hull slapped at the water.
Pivver gestured at the immobile propeller. “See, the captured storm has abated. Has the spell run down?”
Jon-Tom looked up from where he was bending over the engine and wiped grease from his fingers. “In a manner of speaking. We're out of gas.”
“Gas.” Aleaukauna's long, pointed muzzle gave a twitch. “You mean like swamp gas?”
“You're closer to the truth than you think, but what we really need is a special kind of liquid.”
“Can you maybe sing some up?” Mudge eyed his friend questioningly.
“Don't know. I have a feeling that would take a pretty specific spellsong. It's not the sort of subject to inspire.”
“'Ows about the thought o' driftin' around 'ere for another six months?” the otter countered. “Ain't that adequate inspiration?”
“Perhaps something to eat first.” Ansibette knelt to inspect their meager stores and Jon-Tom resolutely looked elsewhere. “I'm so hungry I could eat just about
anything.
”
Mudge was preparing to comment as Jon-Tom hastily suggested that the two otters take a dive to see what edibles they could scrounge.
“A rest would do everyone good,” declared Naike. “It's been a tense few days. I know that if we're going to have to row from here, I could use a break.”
Jon-Tom was too tired from wrestling with the buggy and the cranky engine to argue. Naike was right. It would be nice simply to drift with the current till evening, eat a decently prepared meal, and get a good night's sleep. He could work on composing an appropriately fuelish spellsong and then try it out first thing in the morning.
As Mudge and Pivver brought up mussels, clams, crawfish, bubble crawlers, and other edibles, those on board did their best to unwind. Heke and Karaukul's curiosity drove them to prod and poke at the engine. Jon-Tom thought of warning them away from the silent mass of metal, then decided that since it was out of gas, there was little they could do to make trouble.
Evening was falling when the first sobs arose from Seshenshe: a plaintive, high-pitching yowling. One by one, the other princesses joined in as the buggy took on the atmosphere of a funeral barge.
“Now wot's all this?” Mudge moved to comfort Pivver, who did not push him away.
“Seshenshe's right.” She rubbed at her muzzle. “You males have done so much to help us and we nearly went and threw it all away for reasons of avarice and vanity.”
“we were desperate.” Quiquell's crying consisted of terse little sniffs, her incredible tongue flicking in and out with each diminutive sob.
By way of contrast Umagi bawled thunderously, shedding copious tears. “We were unable to resist his offerings. Foolishness and pride! He played to our weaknesses, inveigled us with magic words like
rouge
and
eye shadow.
”
Ansibette wiped streaks from her face as Jon-Tom fought the urge to take her in his arms and reassure her. Clothahump had once told him that tears were a female's emotional warpaint. He was wary of sacrificing common sense on behalf of sympathy. The flat taste of dried fish in his mouth helped to steady him.
“Yes.” Aleaukauna picked up the sorrowful refrain. “When we were presented with those damnable IOUs to sign, a part of me sensed what he was about. Then he smiled and said âBuy one, get one free' and I was lost.”
Seshenshe blew her nose, nodding knowingly. “And he ussed the most potent, most evil word of all.” For just an instant, a hint of white glaze seemed to spread over her corneas, clouding not only vision but reason and common sense. “
Ssale.
”
Mudge clucked his tongue sardonically. “An obscenity of a four-letter word if ever there were one.”
“I don't understand.” Jon-Tom was honestly bemused. “You're all royalty. I'd wouldn't think you'd be affected by such terms.”
Turning to face one another, the princesses exchanged a glance. It was Ansibette who spoke. “Poor spellsinger. You really
don't
understand.”
“No, he doesn't.” Resting her chin on one set of knuckles, a wistful Umagi gazed aft. “You know, I think if we had shown a little reticence, he would have gone for two for one.”
A concerned Jon-Tom made a conscious effort to steer the conversation away from the incomprehensible. “Don't worry about the boat. I'll think of something to get us running again.”
“Oi, that 'e will!” Mudge clapped his friend on the back. “'E always thinks o' somethin'. That's usually the trouble.”
Neither rest nor food nor sleep provided the inspiration Jon-Tom had hoped for. Morning brought light but not illumination. Nothing for it, he decided resignedly, but to try what little he'd been able to come up with.
Climbing up into the pilot's chair, he took a moment to make sure everything was ready: ignition key, throttle, control stick, duar. The few notes he drew from the venerable instrument floated out clear and pure on the humid morning air, pursued curiously by the cloud of lost chords. Then the luminescent mass of notes darted southwestward, returned to the buggy, and raced off again.
“Don't bother me now,” he snapped at the cloud. “We have to see off these ladies. First we go to Mashupro, and only then to wherever you've been trying to lead us.”
Unable to work “aviation fuel” into a proper lyric and unwilling to risk the possible consequences of referring simply to “gas,” he instead sang a song of speed and propulsion, of rapid travel and calm voyage. Perhaps, he mused even as he improvised words and music, if he'd had any kind of background in country-western, coming up with a song about gasoline wouldn't have required such a musical stretch.
Below, the soldiers and princesses waited and watched. Mudge clung to his seat's struts with particular determination.
It was a most peculiar mist that emerged this time from the duar's nexus. Not that they weren't all outlandish to some degree, he knew as he sang. The billowing vapor was smaller in volume than he'd hoped for, and in hue an unpromising pale blue. Certainly it didn't look like any kind of fuel, nor did it boast the promising cylindrical silhouette of a fifty-five-gallon drum.
So startled was he by what finally coalesced out of the haze that he halted in midsong, something he rarely did. The cloud of chords went suddenly silent and darted forward to hide itself beneath the sharply angled prow of the swamp buggy.
“
What
is
that?
” Like her sister princesses, Ansibette gaped unashamedly at the manifestation.
“
I've
never seen anything like it,” exclaimed a wide-eyed Umagi.
“Well, I have!” Naike's words were as unexpected as his reaction. Drawing his sword, he leaped forward.
“Wait a minim there, guv!” Mudge jumped in front of the determined Lieutenant.
The other soldiers had also drawn their weapons and stood poised to attack. “But it's one of the Plated Folk!” Heke insisted. “The loathsome, the ruthless, the dreaded Plated Folk.”
Unimpressed, Mudge was studying the apparition carefully. “Nope, I don't 'appen to think it 'tis.”
“Well, then, what is it?” While allowing himself to be restrained, Naike continued to eye the creature nervously. For its part it ignored them all as it calmly examined its surroundings.
“Look 'ere, guv. 'Ave you actually
seen
one o' the Plated Folk? 'Ave any o' you?”
The soldiers looked uncertainly at one another. It was left to Naike to respond.
“Well, no, not actually. Not in person. But we have all of us heard the tales and seen drawings.”
“That so? As it 'appens, Jon-Tommy an' I 'ad the occasion many years ago to deal with more Plated Folk than you can think exist, an' dealt with 'em we did!” He indicated the creature standing before them. “This one's attired an' postured all wrong.”
“So it's a fashion-conscious Plated One.” Heke's eyes never left the visitor.
“Mudge is right,” Jon-Tom avowed. “This being has one set of limbs too many. All Plated Folk have six, and this has eight. Nor is it one of the Weaver People.”
*
Cocking its head to peer up at him, the creature declared coolly, “You are observant. I am not one of these plated creatures, whatever they may be.”
“Don't talk like 'em, neither.” Mudge looked vindicated.
In lieu of further comment the visitor turned its attention to the device it held in two of its four hands, scrutinizing with great compound eyes the readouts plainly visible on one perfectly machined surface.
“What are you?” Utterly baffled, Jon-Tom stared at the visitation. Surely his spellsinging hadn't called it up! “What are you doing here?”
“You think I like doing this?” It spoke without looking up at him. “Popping in and out of alternate realities like a blind nursemaid looking for the right brood tunnel? It's difficult, dangerous, time-consuming, and frustrating.”
“Sounds like it.” Mudge agreed without having the faintest idea what the creature was talking about. Behind him, Naike and the other soldiers were starting to relax. Their visitor sounded much less threatening than it looked.
“You may call me Cazpowarex. In deference to your simple minds I will answer to Caz.”
Mudge bristled. “Who you callin' simple-minded, ya bleedin' oversizedâ”
“Mudge,” Jon-Tom said warningly, “where's your sense of hospitality?”
“In the bloody 'ospital, in intensive care, mate.” But the otter did not move to attack. How fortunate he was, he could not have imagined.
The one who called himself Caz considered the four mongoose soldiers, the covey of princesses, and in the forefront of the group, a single fuming otter. But his attention focused on Jon-Tom.
“You I know. You are human. These others are alien to me. As is this entire plenum.” A raspy, cluttering sound emerged from the breathing spicules which lined his thorax. “This is what happens when one goes mucking about with space-time.”