Spellsinger! He’d almost forgotten his own abilities. Not a one of this band of murderers knew of his avocation. He prayed his companions would keep the secret and not blurt it out in a thoughtless moment. He was particularly worried about the elderly Jalwar, but the trader stood petrified and volunteered nothing.
As if reading his thoughts, the pirate captain turned his attention back to him. “And you, tall man. What be you good for?”
“Well, I can fight, too.” Corroboc glanced toward his first mate.
Sasheem muttered an opinion, reluctantly. “Passing well.”
Corroboc grunted and Jon-Tom added, “I am also an entertainer, a troubadour by trade.”
“Huh! Well, ’tis true we could do with a bit o’ song on this scow from time to time.” He gave his crew a look of disgust. “I gets tired o’ listening to the drunken prattling o’ this uncultured bunch.”
Fighting to conceal his anxiety, Jon-Tom went on. “My instrument’s on board our ship, along with the rest of our personal effects.”
“Is it, now?” Corroboc was sweating him with that one piercing eye. “I expect we’ll find it in due course. You in a rush to demonstrate your talents?”
“At your leisure, sir.” Jon-Tom felt the back of his indigo shirt beginning to cling damply to his skin. “It’s only that it’s a fine instrument. I’d hate to see one of your refined crew reduce it to kindling in hopes of finding gold or jewels inside. They wouldn’t.”
Corroboc snorted. “Rest assured they’ll mind their stinking manners.” He addressed the leopard. “Take ’em below and lock ’em in the brig. Let them stew there for a bit.”
“These two also?” Sasheem pointed to Jalwar and Mudge.
“Aye, the bilges will wait. Let them share each other’s filth for a while. By the time I decide to let them out they’ll be clamorin’ to get to work.”
This sophisticated sally brought appreciative laughter from the crew as they sloughed away to their posts. The pirate ship turned westward with the sloop trailing obediently behind it.
As they were herded below, Jon-Tom had his first glimpse of the rowers. Most were naked save for their own fur. They were a cross section of species, from humans to rodents. All exhibited the last stages of physical and mental degeneration.
That’s where we’ll all end up, on the rowing benches, he thought tiredly. Unless we can figure out some way out of this.
At the moment, entry into paradise seemed the more likely route. If he could only get his hands on his duar, there might be a chance. However fickle his spellsinging, however uncertain he was of what he might sing, he was sure of one thing: he’d fashion some kind of magic. And the first try would be his last. He was sure of that much. Corroboc wasn’t stupid, and the captain would give him no second chance to try his hand at wizardry.
Roseroar suddenly twisted to look back over her shoulder, one paw going to her rump. The first mate was grinning back at her.
“Put yo hands on me like that again, cub, and ah’ll make music with yo bones.”
“Gentle now, big one,” said the amused leopard. “I have no doubt you’d do just that if given the chance. But you won’t be given the chance. It’ll go easier on you in the long run if you mind your manners and be nice to Sasheem. If not, well, we have an ample supply of chain on this boat, we do. Your heart may be made of iron, but the rest of you is only flesh and bone. Nice flesh it is, too. Think over your options.
“If I ask him nicely, Corroboc will give you to me.”
She glared back at him. “Ah won’t be a comforting gift.”
Sasheem shrugged. “Comforting or unforgiving, it won’t matter. I aim to have you. Willingly if possible, otherwise if not. You may as well settle your mind to that.” They were herded into a barred cell. Sasheem favored Roseroar with a departing smirk as he joined the rest of his companions in mounting the gangway.
Roseroar sat down heavily, her huge paws clenching and unclenching. “That furred snake. Ah’d like to get my claws into his—”
“Not yet, Roseroar,” Jon-Tom cautioned her. “We’ve got to be patient. They don’t know that I’m a spellsinger. If I can just get my hands on my duar, get one chance to play and sing, we’ll have a chance.”
“A chance at wot, mate?” Mudge slumped dispiritedly in a corner. “For you to conjure up some poor dancin’ girl to take Roseroar’s place? To bury this slimy tub in flowers?”
“I’ll do something,” Jon-Tom told him angrily. “You see if I don’t.”
“I will that, guv.” The otter rolled over, ignoring the fact that the floor of their cage was composed of rank straw stained dark by the urine of previous captives.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m goin’ to ’ave a sleep, mate.”
“How can you sleep now?”
“Because I’m tired, mate.” The otter glanced up at him. “I am tired of fightin’, tired with fear, and most of all I’m tired o’ listenin’ to wot a wonderful spellsinger you are. When you’re ready to magic us out o’ this ’ole and back to someplace civilized, wake me. If not, maybe I’ll be lucky and not wake up meself.”
“One should never ride the wave of pessimism,” Jalwar chided him.
“Close your cake ’ole, you useless old fart. You don’t know wot the ’ell you’re talkin’ about.” Hurt, the old ferret lapsed into silence.
Jon-Tom had moved to the barrier and held a cell bar in each hand. They were fixed deep into the wood of the ship. Small scavenger lizards and dauntingly big bugs skittered about in the dark sections of the hold while others could be heard using the rafters for pathways.
Then he turned to walk over to Roseroar and put a comforting hand on her head, stroking her between the ears. She responded with a tired, halfhearted purr.
“Don’t worry, Roseroar. I got you into this. Maybe I can’t get myself home, but I can damn well get you out of it. I owe you that much. I owe all of you that much.”
Mudge was already asleep and didn’t hear the promise. Jalwar squatted in another corner picking resignedly at strands of hay.
I just don’t know how I’m going to get you all out of this, Jon-Tom mused silently.
VIII
SOMEHOW THE CONCEPT of “swabbing the deck” was tinged with innocence; a reflection of childhood memories of stories about wooden ships and iron men.
The reality of it was something else.
You rested on your hands and knees on a rough planked deck, stripped to the waist beneath a hot sun that blistered your neck and set the skin to peeling off your back. Sweat flowed in streams from under your arms, from your forehead and your belly. Anything small and solid, be it a speck of dust or one of your own hairs, that slipped into your eye made you want to run screaming for the railing to throw yourself over the side.
Salt air worsened your situation, exacerbating the sore spots, making them fester and redden faster. Splinters stung the exposed skin of hands and ankles while your palms were raw from pushing the wide brushes soaked with lye-based cleaning solution.
Meanwhile you advanced slowly the length of the deck, making sure to remove each bloodstain lest some laughing member of the crew remind you of its presence by pressing a heavy foot on your raw fingers.
By midday Jon-Tom no longer cared much if they were rescued or if he were thrown over the rail to be consumed by whatever carnivorous fish inhabited this part of the Glittergeist. He didn’t have much hope left. Already he’d forgotten about Clothahump’s illness, about returning home, forgotten about everything except surviving the day.
By late afternoon they’d finished scrubbing every square foot of the main deck and had moved up to the poop deck. The helmsman, a grizzled old warhog, ignored them. There was no sign of the captain, for which Jon-Tom was unremittingly grateful.
A crude, temporary shelter had been erected off to the left, close by the captain’s perch. Huddled beneath the feeble shade this provided was a girl of sixteen, maybe a little older. Once she might have been prett
y. Now her long blonde hair was so much pale seaweed clinging to her face. She was barely five feet tall. Her eyes were a washed-out blue. Excepting the heavy steel manacle that encircled her neck and was attached to a chain bolted to the deck, she was stark naked.
It provided her with a radius of movement of about ten feet. No more. Just enough to get from the shelter to the rail, where she would have to perform any personal bodily functions in full view of the crew. Jon-Tom had no trouble following the whip welts, casual burns, and bruises that covered most of her body.
She sat silently within the shelter, her legs extended to one side, and said nothing as they approached. She just stared.
Jon-Tom used a forearm to wipe the sweat from around his lips. They were alone on the deck except for the old helmsman. He risked whispering.
“Who are you, girl?” No reply. Only those empty blue eyes, staring. “What’s your name?”
“Leave ’er be, mate,” said Mudge softly. “Can’t you see there’s not much left o’ ’er? She’s mad or near enough, or maybe they cut out ’er tongue to keep ’er from screamin’.”
“None of those,” said the helmsman. He spoke without taking his eyes from the ship’s course. “That’s Folly, the captain’s toy. He took her off a ship that sank several months ago. She’s been nuthin’ but trouble since. Uncooperative, unappreciative when the captain tried bein’ nice to her. I don’t know why he doesn’t throw her overboard and be done with it. It was folly to bring her aboard, and folly to keep her, so Folly’s been her name.”
“But what’s her real name?”
A thin, barely audible reply came from within the shelter. “I have no name. Folly’s as good as any.”
“You can talk. They haven’t broken you yet.”
She glared bitterly at Jon-Tom. “What do you know about anything? I’ve been watching you.” Her mouth twisted. “You’re hurting now. I watched when they took your boat and brought you aboard. The tigress will be around awhile. The old one won’t last two weeks. The otter a little longer, if he keeps his mouth shut.
“As for you,” she eyed Jon-Tom contemptuously, “you’ll say the wrong thing and lose your tongue. Or worse.”
“What happened to you?” Jon-Tom was careful to keep his voice down and his arms moving lest Sasheem or one of the other mates take note of the conversation.
“What does it matter?”
“It matters to me. It should matter to you, because we’re going to get off this ship.” If the helmsman overheard he gave no sign.
The girl laughed sharply. “And you thought I’d gone mad.” She glanced at Roseroar. “The man is crazy, isn’t he?” Roseroar made no reply, bending to her work.
“And you’ll come with us,” he went on. “I wouldn’t leave you here.”
“Why not? You’ve got your own business to attend to. Why not leave me here? You don’t know me, you don’t owe me.” She spat at the deck. “This is a stupid conversation. You’re not going anywhere.”
“What happened?” he prodded gently.
A tiny bit of the hardness seemed to go out of her, and she looked away from him. “My family and I were on a trading packet bound from Jorsta to the Isles of Durl when we ran afoul of these bastards. They killed my father along with the rest of the males and later, my mother. Since my little sister was too young to be of any use to them, they threw her overboard. They killed everyone, except for me. For some reason that unmentionable thing they call their captain took a fancy to me. I imagine he saw future profit in me.” She shrugged. “I’ve taken care to give them nothing but trouble since. Hence my name, a gift of the crew.”
“Been less troublesome lately,” grunted the helmsman significantly.
“Have you tried to escape?”
“Escape to where? Yes, I tried anyway. Better drowning or sharks than this. At least, I tried before they put this chain on me. I only tried once. There are worse things than being beaten. As you may find out.”
He lowered his voice to make certain the helmsman couldn’t overhear. “I don’t intend to. We’re getting off this ship. Will you come with us when we do?”
“No.” She stared straight back at him. “No. I won’t. I don’t want to be hurt anymore.”
“That’s why I’m taking you with us.” She turned away from him. “What’s wrong?”
Mudge gave him a gentle nudge. “Watch your mouth, lad. ’Tis the captain, may ’e rot in ’is own excrement.”
“How goes she, Pulewine?” Corroboc inquired of his helmsman.
“Steady on course. Captain.”
Jon-Tom kept his attention on his scrub brush, heard the thunk of the captain’s wooden leg move nearer.
“And how be our fine cleaning crew this bright morning? Are they working like the elegant fighters we brought aboard?”
“No, Captain.” The helmsman allowed himself a grunting laugh. “As anyone can see, they’re working like the scum that they are.”
“That’s good.” Corroboc walked around Jon-Tom until the parrot was standing between him and Folly’s shelter. He turned his good eye on the man. “Now then, mayhap we each understand our place in the order o’ things, har?”
“Yes, Captain,” murmured Jon-Tom readily enough.
“Aye, that be the way to answer. Keep that tone about you and you’ll live to do more service.” He cast a glance into the shelter and Jon-Tom went cold as he saw the look that came over Folly’s face as she drew back into the shadows.
“Chatting with the young she, have you?”
Since the helmsman had been privy to much of their conversation, Jon-Tom could hardly deny it had taken place.
“A word or two, sir. Harmless enough.”
“Har, I be sure o’ that! A cute little specimen of her species, though not marketable in her present condition, fears I. A consequence of noncooperation.” Jon-Tom said nothing, scrubbed harder, trying to push the brush through the wood.
“That’s it, boy. Scrub well and we’ll see to giving you a chance to entertain us when you’ve finished.” He shared a laugh with the helmsman. “Though not the kind you think, no. The two of you can entertain us together.”
“I wouldn’t get under that whey-faced stringbean if you shot me with pins,” Folly snapped.
Corroboc turned that merciless eye on his prisoner. “Now, what make you think you’d be having any choice in the matter, Folly? It’ll be a pleasant thing to work out the geometry of it.” He lashed out suddenly with his one good foot. The sharp claws cut twin bloody gouges up her thigh and she let out a soft cry.
Jon-Tom dug his fingernails into the wood of the brush.
“That be better now, and we’ll be having no more arguments, will we?” Folly clung to the shadows and whimpered, holding her injured leg. “You’ve been disappointment enough to me. As soon as we make land I’ll rid myself of you, and I’ll make certain your buyer is of a similar mind when it comes to staging entertainments. Then perhaps you’ll yearn for the good old days back aboard Corroboc’s ship, har?” He turned back to the deck cleaners.
“Keep at it, slime.” He addressed his helmsman. “When they’ve finished the deck, run them forward and set them to scrubbing the sides. Sling them over in nets. If one of them falls through, it will serve as a fine lesson to the others.”
“Aye, Captain,” said the helmsman.
Corroboc rose on bright green wings to glide down to the main deck. The warthog cast a wizened eye at Jon-Tom.
“Watch thy tongue and mind thy manners and thee might live as much as a year.” This admonition was finished off with a thick, grunting laugh. “Still going to escape?”
You bet your porcine ass we are, Jon-Tom thought angrily as he attacked the decking. The wood was the only thing he could safely take out his fury on. We’ll get out of this somehow and take that poor battered girl with us.
Without his realizing it, the sight of Folly had done something their own desperate situation had not: it forced him to realize how selfish he’d been these p
ast hours, moping around bemoaning his fate. He wasn’t the only one who had problems. Everyone else was depending on him—Mudge and Jalwar and Roseroar, and Clothahump sick and hurt back in his tree, and now Folly.
So he hadn’t made it back to his own world. Tough. Self-pity wouldn’t get him any closer to L.A. He had friends who needed him.
Mudge noticed the change in his friend’s attitude immediately. He scrubbed the deck with renewed enthusiasm.
“Work ’ard and ’ave confidence, mates,” he whispered to Jalwar and Roseroar. “See that look on me pal’s face? I’ve seen it afore. ’E may be ’alf bonkers, but sometimes ’tis the ’alf bonkers, part crazy part that sees a way out where none’s to be seen.”
“I pray it is so,” whispered Jalwar, “or we are well and truly doomed.”
“’Alf a chance,” Mudge muttered. “That’s all ’e needs is ’alf a chance.”
“They may not give it to him,” commented Roseroar.
While his companions slept the sleep of the exhausted that night, Jon-Tom planned and schemed. Corroboc was going to let him sing, out of curiosity if naught else. Songs would have to be chosen carefully, with an eye toward suppressing any suspicions the captain might have. Jon-Tom had no doubt that the homicidal parrot would watch him carefully.
His recital should be as bland and homogenous as possible. Somehow he would have to find an effective tune that would have the hoped-for results while sounding perfectly innocent. The lyrics would have to be powerful but nonthreatening.
Only when he’d arranged a program in his mind did he allow himself to fall into a troubled, uneasy sleep.
The first mate had them scrubbing the base of the mainmast the next morning. Corroboc strolled past without looking at the work, and Jon-Tom turned slowly toward him, keeping his tone deferential.
“Your pardon, Captain.”
The parrot turned, wingtips resting on slim bird hips. “Don’t waste my time, boy. You’ve plenty to do.”
“I know that, Captain sir, but it’s very much the wrong kind of work. I miss my chosen avocation, which is that of minstrel. My knowledge of songs of far lands is unsurpassed.”