The tigress stepped down from the mast to join them, staring back over the stern. “Ah only wish ah’d had a few minutes to mahself on that boat.” Her eyes narrowed and she growled low enough to chill the blood of her companions. “That fust mate, fo example. Wouldn’t he have been surprised when he’d woke up without his—”
“Roseroar,” Jon-Tom chided her, “that’s no way for a lady to talk.”
She showed sharp teeth, huge fangs. “That depends on the lady, don’t it, Jon-Tom?” Suddenly she pushed past him, frowning as she squinted into the distance.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, turned to look aft.
She spoke evenly, unafraid, and ready.
“Looks like we ain’t finished with ol’ Corroboc yet.”
IX
“Gel below, Jalwar,” Jon-Tom told the ferret. “You’ll be of no use to us on deck.”
“I must disobey, sir.” The oldster had picked up a long fishing gaff and was hefting it firmly. “I am not going back onto that floating purgatory. I’d rather die here.”
Jon-Tom nodded, held his staff ready in front of him. In planning and executing their subtle flight from the pirate ship he’d forgotten one thing. Forgotten it because he’d been in this strange world so long he’d come to think of it as normal. So when he’d planned their escape he hadn’t considered that they might have to deal with the fact that Corroboc and several of his crew could fly.
There were only six of them. The captain must have threatened all of them with dismemberment to force so small a group to make the attack. Behind the parrot flew a couple of big ravens, a hawk, and a small falcon. They were armed with thin spears and light swords.
Jon-Tom set the sloop on automatic pilot, which left him free to join the fight. Jalwar thought the flashing red light of this new magic fascinating.
The fliers were fast and agile. Corroboc in particular might be short an eye and a leg, but there was nothing wrong with his wings. He dove and twisted as he thrust, keeping just out of range of his former prisoner’s weapons.
Nevertheless, it soon became clear that the pirates were overmatched.
Corroboc’s strategy was good. It called for his crew to stay just beyond sword range while striking with their needlelike spears. It might even have worked except for the one joker in the sloop’s deck. With his longbow, Mudge gleefully picked off first the falcon and then wounded one of the ravens.
This forced the attackers to close with their quarry, and their agility couldn’t compensate for their relatively small size. One of Roseroar’s spinning swords sliced the wounded raven in half. Then another of Mudge’s arrows pierced the hawk’s thin armor. When he saw that he couldn’t hope to win either at long range or in close, Corroboc ordered a retreat.
“Have a care for your gullets, scum!” the parrot shouted at them as he danced angrily in the air just out of arrow range. “I swear your fate be sealed! The oceans, nay, the whole world be not big enough to hide you from me. Wherever you run to old Corroboc will find you, and when he do, you’ll wish you’d never been borned!”
“Blow it out your arse, mate!” Mudge followed this with a long string of insulting comments on the captain’s dubious ancestry. Roseroar listened with distaste.
“Such uncouthness! Ah do declah, it makes me queasy all ovah. Ah do so long fo the refined conversation of civilized company.”
The otter overheard and cast a dignified eye back at her.
“Cor! I’ll ‘ave you know, me elephantine kitten, that me language is as fucking refined as anyone’s!”
“Yes,” she agreed sweetly. “Ah surely don’t know how ah could have thought otherwise.”
Jon-Tom stepped between them. “What are you two arguing about this time? We won, and we’re safely on course again.”
A shaky, no longer cocky voice came from the gangway.
“What. . . what did we win? Who won?”
Jon-Tom remembered Folly. “Take the wheel, Roseroar.”
“Jon-Tom, if n yo want mah opinion, ah think—!”
He disengaged the autopilot. The boat heeled sharply to port, and Roseroar was forced to grab the wheel to keep it from spinning wildly.
Jon-Tom searched the gangway, finally discovered Folly huddled far back in a lower bunk. Within the sloop’s clean, quiet confines she looked suddenly fragile. The iron collar was an ugly dark stain around her pale neck.
He studied it thoughtfully. The sloop was well stocked.
If he searched, he was certain he could find a hacksaw or something with which to cut the metal.
“Relax, calm yourself.” He spoke gently, soothingly. “You’re free. Just as I promised. Well, not completely free,” he corrected himself, smiling encouragingly. “You’re still stuck with us. But you can forget about Corroboc. You’ll never have to worry about him again. I spellsang them to sleep. You too. While they all slept, we escaped.”
Her reply was halting. “Then. . . you are a wizard. And I doubted you.”
“Forget it. Sometimes I doubt it myself.” She was swaying on the bunk and he was suddenly concerned.
“Hey, you don’t look so good.”
“I’m so tired . . . .” She put her hand to her forehead and fell over into his arms. He was acutely aware of her nakedness. Not to mention her smell. Corroboc’s ship was no paragon of good hygiene. Folly likely hadn’t bathed since she’d been taken captive.
He slipped a supportive arm around her back. “Come with me.” He helped her stumble toward the ship’s head.
“We’ll let you get cleaned up. Then we’ll find some way to get that chunk of iron off you. While you’re showering I’ll see if I can find something for you to wear. There must be clothes in one of the ship’s storage lockers.”
“I thank you for your kindness, sir.”
He smiled again. “That’s better. Just call me Jon-Tom.”
She nodded, leaning against him. For a minute he thought she was going to break down in his arms. She didn’t. Not then, and not later. The first thing she’d lost on Corroboc’s ship was the ability to cry.
While she washed, he searched the ship’s cabinets. One contained familiar clothing. Familiar to him, but not to any of his companions. He made a few selections and left them outside the shower, along with a hacksaw and a file.
He’d expected to see an improvement, but he was still shocked when she reappeared on deck later that afternoon.
She’d removed the iron collar. Her hair was combed out and pulled back behind her. She stood there and looked down at herself uneasily. “I must look passing strange in these peculiar garments.”
“You’ll get no argument on that from me, luv.” The flabbergasted Mudge moved closer to inspect the odd attire. “Strange sort o’ material.” He ran a paw over one leg, reached higher. “ ‘Ere too.”
“That’s not material,” she said angrily, knocking his questing fingers away.
Mudge grinned as he dodged. “Fine-feelin’ material to me, luv.”
“You try that again, water rat, and I’ll. . .”
Jon-Tom ignored them. The argument wasn’t serious.
Mudge was being his usual obnoxious self, and he thought Folly realized it. Besides which he was busy enough trying to sort out his own jumbled feelings.
Folly was gorgeous. There was no other word for it.
Young, but beautiful, standing there on the deck in old Levi’s and a worn sweatshirt that had SLOOP JOHN B. printed across the back. She looked so achingly normal, so much like any girl he might encounter on the beach back home, that for a moment he was afraid he would be the one to cry. Only the fading but still visible bruises on her face and the ring the collar had left around her neck reminded him of where he’d found her. He would have to hunt for the sloop’s first-aid kit. Or maybe he could think of a good healing song, something more effective here than bandages and ointments.
Roseroar gave the new arrival a cursory once-over and snorted. “Skinny little thing. Yo humans. . .” She turned her gaze to
the stars that were coming out. Jalwar was already asleep somewhere below, the poor old ferret exhausted by the strenuous events of the past few days. The horizon astern was clear, the pirate ship having dropped out of sight long ago. The wind off the waves still blew them steadily toward Snarken, a goal temporarily lost and now within reach again.
Snarken itself proved easy to locate. As soon as they sailed within fifty miles of the city there was a perceptible increase in the volume of surface traffic around the sloop.
All they had to do was hail a couple of merchant ships bound for the same destination and follow them in.
A long range of hills that rolled down to the sea was split by a wide but crowded inlet. Once through they found themselves in a spacious bay ringed by lush green slopes that climbed several hundred feet above the harbor. Still higher land was visible off in the distance.
Wharves and docks crowded together on the far side of the bay. These were home to dozens of vessels that docked here from lands known and alien. Snarken was the principal port on the Glittergeist’s southwestern shore.
Jon-Tom steered them through the merchantmen, in search of an empty dock. Many of the wharves were constructed of stone. The rocks were smooth and rounded, evidence mat they had been carried down to the beach by glaciers some time far in the past. The stones were cemented tightly together and topped with planks.
They finally located an open slip. Mudge dickered with the dockmaster until a fee was settled on. This brought up the matter of their Malderpot-induced impecuniousness. A solution was found in the form of several stainless steel hammers taken from the sloop’s toolbox. These the avaricious dockmaster eagerly accepted in payment.
“What do you think, Mudge?” Jon-Tom asked the otter as they walked up the pier. “Will he leave the ship alone?”
“An ‘onest bloke’s easy enough to spot, bein’ a rare sort o’ bird. She’ll be safe in our absence. For one thing, the greedy bugger’s terrified of ‘er.”
Jon-Tom nodded, paused as they stepped off the pier onto the cobblestone avenue that fronted the harbor. Lizard-drawn wagons piled high with goods clanked and rumbled all around them. Strange accents and aromas filled the air.
“That bit o’ business do bring one problem to mind, mate.”
“What’s that, Mudge?”
“Wot are we goin’ to do for money? We can’t keep tradin’ away ship’s tools.”
Jon-Tom rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Right you are. We’re going to have to buy supplies for the trek to Cranculam, too. We’re going to need a lot.”
“I’ll say!” said Folly impatiently. “I need some real clothes. I can’t walk around in this silly otherworldly stuff. People will laugh at me. Besides”—she ran her hands over the too-tight seat of her jeans—”it binds me most strangely.”
Mudge stepped toward her. “ ‘Ere now, luv, let me ‘ave a looksee. Might be we could loosen this ‘ere . . . .”
She jumped away from his outstretched fingers. “Keep your hands to yourself, water rat, or you’re liable to lose them.”
Mudge pursed his lips hurtfully, turned to Jon-Tom.
“Now, ‘ere’s an idea, mate. Why don’t we sell ‘er? That were probably the best idea that ever occurred to that rancid bag o’ feathers Corroboc. Now that she’s cleaned up ‘alfway decent, she’d likely bring a nice bit o’ change. It would solve two of our problems at once, wot?”
Despite his speed, the otter barely succeeded in ducking under Jon-Tom’s swing. The chase shifted to a cluster of big wooden barrels, but Jon-Tom was unable to run the tireless otter down. He wore him out pretty good, though.
“Take it easy, mate.” Both man and otter fought to catch their breath. Mudge looked out from behind a barrel. “Let’s not kill each other over it. It were just a thought.”
“Okay. But let’s not have any more idiotic talk about selling Folly or anyone else.”
The object of this exhausted discussion gazed curiously up at her rescuer. “Why don’t you sell me? I’m nothing to you. I’m nothing to anyone except myself. Don’t think I’m being ungrateful. I wouldn’t have lived another month on that ship. I want to help you. I can’t think of any other way to repay you for your kindnesses.” She threw a warning glance the otter’s way. Wisely, Mudge said nothing.
“All I have, though, is myself. If you need money so badly, selling me should solve your problem. I’m worth something.” She turned away, unable to meet his eyes.
“Even after the way I’ve been used.”
He tried hard not to be angry with her. “Where I come from, Folly, we don’t sell people.”
“You don’t?” She looked genuinely puzzled. “Then what do you do with people who have nothing else to do?”
“We put ‘em on welfare, social security.”
She shook her head. “Those words mean nothing to me.”
He tried to explain. “We see to it that everyone is guaranteed some sort of minimum income, some kind of sustenance.”
“Even if they’re no good at anything?”
“Even if they’re no good at anything.”
“That doesn’t seem very efficient.”
“Maybe it’s not efficient, but it’s human.”
“Brock’s blocks, now there you ‘ave it, luv. That explains it all. Sounds like the sort o’ bizarre scheme a bunch o’ ‘umans would dream up.”
“Nobody gets sold,” Jon-Tom announced with finality.
“Right then, mate. Wot do you propose we do for funds?” He indicated the rows of buildings lining the harborfront. “We need food and a place to sleep and supplies.”
Jon-Tom glanced up at the heretofore silent Roseroar.
“You wouldn’t sell her, would you?”
The tigress turned away. “It ain’t fo me to say.” She sniffed toward the girl. “Perhaps she’s just tryin’ to tell yo she wants to go her own way.”
Jon-Tom posed the question. “Is that true, Folly?”
“No. I have no place to go, but I don’t want to cause trouble or be in the way, and I do want to help.”
“Sensibly put,” said Mudge brightly. “If you’ll allow me, mate, I’ll begin searchin’ out the likely markets, and we can—”
“Wait a minute.” Jon-Tom was nodding to himself.
“We can sell the sloop.”
“The magic boat?” Jalwar looked doubtful. “Is that wise?”
“Why not? From what Clothahump told me, Cranculam lies overland from Snarken. We’ve no further need for a boat, magic or not. As for returning home, I hope to be able to pay our way. I’m tired of sailing. I’d like to be a passenger for a while.” He put a hand on Mudge’s shoulder.
“You saw the way the wharfmaster jumped at the chance to get those two hammers. Think what some rich local would pay for the whole boat. There’s nothing like it anywhere around here.”
“I’d rather sell the girl,” he murmured, “but the boat would fetch more. You’re right about that, guv. I’m no yacht broker, but I’ll do me best to strike us the best bargain obtainable.”
“Mudge, with you doing the dealing, I know we’ll come out well.”
The otter concluded a sale that very afternoon. Payment was made in gold. They left behind a delighted trader in ships and a wharfmaster greedily counting out his commission. Jon-Tom had no regrets. He’d obtained the sloop for a song.
By nightfall they were established in a clean, moderately priced harborfront inn.
“Wot now, mate?” Mudge dug into his dinner and talked around mouthfuls of food. Jalwar displayed refined table manners, while Roseroar ate with precision and unexpected delicacy. Folly gobbled down everything set before her and still finished well ahead of the others.
Confident she could take care of herself, Jon-Tom parceled out a pocketful of coin and sent her off in search of attire more suited to her new surroundings.
“We need to find out which way Crancularn lies,” he told the otter as he sipped at his own tankard, “acquire sufficient supplies, and
be on our way. Clothahump is waiting on us, and much as I’d like to, we can’t linger here.”
“Ah’m ready fo some clean countryside,” agreed Roseroar.
“Ah’ve had enough o’ the ocean to last me fo a while.”
“You’re bound and determined to see this insanity through to the bitter end, aren’t you, mate?”
“You know that I am, Mudge. I gave my word.”
“I was afraid you’d say somethin’ like that.” He sighed, wiped gravy from his lips. “Wait ‘ere.”
The otter vanished into the main dining room of the inn, returned moments later. He was not alone. With him was a finely coiffed orangutan. This individual was dressed in old but well-cared-for clothing. Lace ruffles billowed from collar and sleeves. His orange beard was trimmed short and he puffed on a long, curved pipe. One earring of silver and garnet dangled from his left ear.
“So you weesh to traveel eenland?” There was an odd lilt to his voice that reminded Jon-Tom of the other orang he’d met, the venerable Doctor Nilanthos of Lynchbany.
That reminded him of the mugging victims the good doctor had worked on, and of the mugger, the flame-haired Talea.
He forced his thoughts back to the present. Talea was far away.
“That’s right. We need a certain medicine.”
The primate nodded once. “Weel, you’ll find no better place to seek eet than here een Snarken. Eet’s the beegest city on the western shore of the Gleetergeist, and eef what you seek ees not to be found here, eet ees not to be found anywhere.”
“You see, lad,” said Mudge hopefully. “Wot did I tell you? Might as well start lookin’ for ‘is sorcerership’s fix right ‘ere.”
“Sorry, Mudge.”
“C’mon, mate. Couldn’t we at least try a local chemist’s shop?”
“What ees thee problem, stranger?” asked the orang.
The aroma drifting from the bowl at the end of the thin pipe was fragrant and powerful. Jon-Tom suspected it contained more than merely tobacco. Evidently the orang noticed Jon-Tom’s interest, because he turned the pipe about. “Care for a heet?”