Jon-Tom nodded. “I figured I must’ve been out for a while. What happened to our raft and supplies?”
“Scattered all over the lake bottom,” Mudge told him sadly. “What they didn’t see fit to salvage. They’ve got all our weapons in a little dry storage area over there, to keep the water from ruinin’ ’em. Exhibit A for the prosecution, I’d wager.”
Jon-Tom went to the wall. Next to their prison and separated from it by only a foot of water was a much smaller, air-filled dome. It was crammed with weapons and personal belongings scavenged from an indeterminate number of similarly unlucky travelers to this part of the Wrounipai. The most recent acquisitions were clearly visible atop a wooden hamper: his ramwood staff and sword; Mudge’s longbow and arrows and short sword; some of their food stock; and atop everything else, dry and apparently undamaged, his precious duar. If not for the intervening water and walls he might have reached out and grabbed it.
“Mudge, if we could just get ahold of my duar…”
“Then you’d charm ’em all with your sweet songs, mate. Unfortunately, there’s only one way out o’ ’ere, and I ain’t about to try it unless that mobile butcher shop out there swims off to take a crap or somethin’. Uh-oh.” He started backing toward the far wall.
Jon-Tom looked around nervously. “What is it, what’s wrong?”
“Company.”
Jon-Tom hurried to join him.
One by one, a trio of Plated Folk entered the chamber. Spend the majority of their lives beneath the water they might, but they still had to go up to the surface from time to time to breathe. Their bodies concealed lungs, not gills. So they built air chambers to live in, like the imprisoning dome.
Two of them looked like twins. They wore some kind of thin, unrusted metal armor. Jon-Tom thought it might have been tarnished copper, but he wasn’t certain. Each was about four feet in height.
The third was a tall, reedy character who looked something like a hydrotropic walking stick but really resembled no insect Jon-Tom had ever seen before on this world or his own. It wore no armor and, unlike its two stocky companions, carried no weapons. Instead, in one set of pincers it held several thin sheets of metal thick with engraving.
This sickly seven-footer bent to confer with its aides. Together they appeared to discuss the contents of the metal sheets. Then it straightened to its full height and pointed an accusatory finger in Jon-Tom’s direction.
“There is no question. He is the one.”
“Is the one!” his two shadows declared loudly.
“Is the one what?” Jon-Tom asked innocently.
“The music wizard who called forth the fire horse and slew the Empress Skrritch at the Jo-Troom Gate. You are he.”
Jon-Tom burst out laughing. “I’m who? Look, friend, I never heard of the Jo-Troom Gate or the Empress Skrritch or any of what you’re talking about. My companion here and I are wanderers in this land. We’re just a little while out from Quasequa, having ourselves a bit of vacation. I swear I don’t know what the devil you’re talking about!”
“But you do know about lying. That much is evident,” murmured the tall speaker, “because you do it so forcefully. You are the wizard. There is no point in denying it.”
“But I do deny it. Forcefully, as you put it.”
The pair of shorter insects moved toward him, drawing their short, curved swords. Barbs protruded from the sicklelike cutting edges.
They lumbered past him and one put a sword against Mudge’s throat. The otter made no effort to dodge. There was nowhere to hide.
The fixed chitin could not convey much in the way of expression, but the speaker’s meaning was clear to Jon-Tom nonetheless. “Do you deny it still?”
Jon-Tom swallowed. “Maybe I did participate in the battle for the Gate, but so did half the inhabitants of the warmlands.”
The sword pressed tight against Mudge’s Adam’s apple, trimming some of the hair from his neck. “And I have some faint recollection of perhaps possibly maybe participating in some small way in the casting of some minor spell,” Jon-Tom added hastily.
The hooked scimitar withdrew and the otter breathed again.
“That is better,” said the speaker.
“No need to take it so personal,” Jon-Tom said, but the speaker ignored him, spoke instead to his two aides.
“This is a great day for this outpost of Empire. A memorable day.” The aides resheathed their swords. Their chitin was a rich maroon color, black underneath and marked by thick black vertical stripes across the vestigial wing cases. The speaker was yellow and black, with white spots on his cases. “There will be decorations for all, and the war council will be pleased. The Empress herself will commend us.”
“The Empress?” Jon-Tom blurted it out. There seemed no harm, since they were certain of his identity. “I thought Skrritch was slain during the battle, as you just said.”
“So she was. I refer to the Empress Isstrag, now reigning. She will preside over your deaths. A small measure of revenge will be gained for the destruction you wrought at the Gate. I shall turn you over to the Dissembling Masters myself. Our land-dwelling cousins will be most delighted.”
“Your cousins? Then you didn’t participate in the battle?”
“Distance precluded our lending aid to our cousins in the Greendowns, and in any case the battle was waged upon the land. We could have been of little help. We regretted our exclusion. Now you have provided us with a means to make up for it.”
“If you didn’t join in the fight, then you’ve got nothing against us, and we’ve got nothing against you,” Jon-Tom argued desperately. “Why not let us go on our way? We’ve no quarrel with the inhabitants of Cugluch.”
“Ah, but they have a lingering quarrel with you, wizard. Your dismemberment will bring much honor on our isolated community. All will gain in prestige. You must be kept alive and well for your delivery to the Masters.”
“Look, guv’nor,” said Mudge, “I know I don’t ’ave a ’ole lot o’ leverage ’ere, but if you’re bound and determined to deliver us to this new Empress and ’er private torturers, ’ow about turnin’ us in dead?”
The speaker shook his head. “That would mitigate the delight of the royal court.”
“Aw, gee, that’d be a shame, wouldn’t it?” said Mudge saracastically.
The speaker missed it. “It speaks well of you that you should take such an attitude. That is commendable in a servant.”
“Servant! Who’s a bloomin’ servant!” Mudge’s outrage, like Jon-Tom’s earlier disclaimer, was ignored.
“Perhaps the Empress will even allow this unworthy one to be present at the entertainment you will provide.”
“Yeah, I’ll wave good-bye to you,” Mudge muttered sullenly.
“If not, there will still be ample glory in delivering you up into her presence.”
“I’m curious about one thing,” Jon-Tom said. “How did you know who we were?” He indicated the storage chamber outside the main dome. “You’ve obviously murdered dozens of travelers.”
“Trespassers in our waters.” Bulbous compound eyes focused on Jon-Tom. “As to the matter of identifying you, you underestimate yourself, man.” The speaker’s voice was hoarse, a rasping sound, due at least in part to the long, thin tube of a mouth from which his words emerged.
“Did you think we are so disorganized as to not take care to pass among ourselves descriptions of our greatest enemies? Do you think we would let them pass unnoticed among us? Great generals and great wizards among the warmlanders are well known to us. You should be proud to be among the notable, pleased that you should be so quickly recognized in a land so far from the place where you did battle.”
Somehow Jon-Tom didn’t feel flattered. “If you know that I’m a great wizard, then you must also know that I ask these questions only to gratify my curiosity before we leave this place.”
“I do not think your curiosity strong enough to cause you to linger this long,” observed the speaker cannily. ?
??If you could leave freely, I believe you would already have done so. Indeed, were you capable of such sorcery, I do not think you ever would have been captured.” He paused, and Jon-Tom had the feeling the tall insect was eyeing him curiously.
“There was known to be among the warmlanders during the battle for the Gate a great and strange spellsinger. To make magic, a spellsinger of any race must have an instrument with him.” He gestured with a three-foot-long arm toward the storage chamber. “That instrument, perhaps.”
Jon-Tom didn’t look toward his duar. “Perhaps. Or perhaps this small flute I always carry with me.” He reached inside his shirt.
The two stocky insects nearly broke their antennae diving for the exit, jamming tight for an instant before tumbling to safety in the water beyond. The giant water bug stirred uneasily, its massive front pincers flexing.
The tall speaker flinched but did not retreat. He relaxed when Jon-Tom’s hand stayed concealed inside his shirt. “A small amusement. I understand.” He turned his head to eye the dome’s entrance. His two aides were peeking cautiously back into the air-filled chamber.
Jon-Tom didn’t understand the phrasing, but it certainly sounded like a curse that fell from the speaker’s speaking tube. A contemptuous curse. The aides slowly reentered the dome under the baleful gaze of their superior. Jon-Tom’s interpretation of their expressions was not pleasant.
As though nothing had happened, the speaker turned back to him. “Tomorrow we will make a special conveyance for both of you. It will contain a small air chamber like this one so that we can travel safely to Cugluch underwater. There are many rivers and quiet lakes between here and the Greendowns, and we should not have to expose ourselves to the land-dwellers very often. There will be no chance of rescue for you. You might as well enjoy the journey. You will be pampered.”
“Fatted calves,” Jon-Tom murmured. “How are you going to cross Zaryt’s Teeth?”
“There are rivers that tunnel through the mountains. We know them. You shall come to know them as well, though it is knowledge you will never be able to share. Now I have a question, man. What were you intending in this country, so far south of your own land, from the region backing onto the Gate?”
Mudge jerked a thumb in Jon-Tom’s direction. “This one ’ere, guv’nor, ’e’s a bloody tourist, ’e is. He likes to get out and see the wonders o’ nature and all that crap.”
“And what of you?”
“Me? That’s easy. See, I’m barkin’ insane, ain’t I? I’d ’ave to be or I wouldn’t be ’ere.” With that he sat down on the reeds, a decidedly peeved look on his face, and refused to answer any more queries. The worst they could do was kill him.
“You must be an interesting person, spellsinger wizard,” commented the speaker. “It is a long journey between here and the Greendowns. We may enjoy many a diverting conversation along the way.”
“’Fraid not,” Jon-Tom told him evenly. “I’m not much on small talk with casual killers.”
“We are not casual. I am disappointed. I would have thought your reaction to your situation might have been more enlightened.” It performed a gesture that might have stood for a shrug, or might have meant something else entirely.
“It will make no difference in the final judgment. You know your fate.”
With dignity, the speaker turned and vanished through the watery portal, flanked by his stocky aides. There was respect in the giant water bug’s movements as it swam aside to let the trio pass. Jon-Tom watched the speaker swim slowly around the dome, heading back down toward the buildings below.
There was a rush of water from the entrance. The giant water bug’s head, with its massive mandibles, was even more impressive out of the water.
“YOU STAY,” it grunted in a crackling voice, then pulled clear to resume its motionless patrol. Water surged in after it, making their humid prison damper than ever.
“Tomorrow, he said,” Jon-Tom murmured, gazing toward the watery sky. Already it was growing dark inside the dome as the sun sank toward the horizon. “That doesn’t give us much time.”
“It doesn’t give us any time, mate. We’re doomed.”
“Never use that word around me, Mudge. I refuse to acknowledge it.”
“Right you are, mate. We’re stuck.” The otter turned away, bemoaning his fate.
In truth, there seemed no way out. Even if they could somehow manage to slip past their monstrous guard, their movement through the water could be detected and recognized instantly by any of the vibration-sensitive inhabitants of the underwater community.
As for the dome, if they cut a hole in it, water would pour in and prevent any exit. In any case, it would take at least a week to make an impression on that hard, sticky material with Mudge’s claws and his fingernails. It was as if they were imprisoned in a cell completely encased in alarm wires. All they had to do was move to trip one.
That didn’t keep him from thinking about escape, but by the time they’d finished the evening meal their captors thoughtfully provided, he was forced to admit that his usually fertile imagination could generate nothing in the way of a plan. Not even a suggestion of a plan.
Mudge was right this time. They were stuck. Maybe they would have a better opportunity to escape during the long journey to Cugluch. In that case, he’d only hurt their chances by not sleeping.
The mat was soft, but not reassuring.
“Where’s the other one?” said an excited, rasping voice.
Jon-Tom opened his eyes. It was light inside the dome again, but barely. The sun was still rising. He shivered in the damp cold air.
The dome was alive with activity. Sitting up on the reeds, he tried to force his eyes to adjust to the feeble light. Busy water beetles scurried around, inspecting the walls, sniffing at the floor, tearing the reed mat up around him. All of them carried six-inch-long knives.
He counted at least a dozen of them. Two ran past, still shedding water from their recent entry. As his brain began to clear he saw that they were not merely active; they were downright agitated.
Standing close to the entrance was the speaker. His maroon aides huddled close to him. Their swords were drawn and they, too, were searching the interior of the dome anxiously.
Then the speaker’s words, filtered through his half-asleep thoughts, struck home.
“Mudge?” He got on all fours, feeling through the reeds where the otter had been sitting last night. “Mudge!” The otter’s musk was still strong in the enclosed chamber. That, and the impression of his body in the reeds, was all that remained of him.
When Jon-Tom rose, he was immediately surrounded by three of the sword-wielding water beetles. He put their edginess and Mudge’s apparent absence together and reached an inescapable conclusion.
The otter had split.
As the rising sun shed more light on the search, his smile grew wider and wider. The Plated Folk were already repeating themselves. After all, there were only a limited number of possible hiding places within the dome. Somehow Mudge had made it to freedom without waking his companion or alarming their giant guard.
He wasn’t angry with the otter for not alerting him. Obviously, whatever avenue of escape he’d followed wasn’t suitable for the gangly Jon-Tom, or Mudge would have gotten both of them out. Sure he would. Jon-Tom refused to believe otherwise.
He wouldn’t allow himself to believe otherwise.
Besides, it was only justice. Only fair that having been unwillingly dragooned into this expedition, Mudge should be the one to escape with his life.
Then there was no more time to bask in the success of the otter’s chicanery because the speaker was towering over him.
Bright compound eyes gazed down at the single remaining prisoner, and that raspy voice repeated the question it had asked of its minions only minutes earlier.
“Where is the other one? The short furry slave?”
“He’s not a slave,” Jon-Tom said defiantly. “As for your first question, why don’t you go screw yours
elf and see if it brings forth enlightenment?” He derived unexpected pleasure from the vehemence of his reply.
It had absolutely no effect on the speaker. “Tell me or I will have your limbs removed.”
“What, and deprive the Empress of so much delight?” Jon-Tom grinned up at the speaker. “Not that it matters. I don’t know where he is any more than you do. Your folks woke me out of a sound sleep. You were here and Mudge was gone. Where to I couldn’t say, and I don’t care as long as it’s far away from here.”
“I do not think you are telling the truth, but as you say, it matters not. You are here and he is gone. You are the important one anyway. You are the one they will greet with joy in Cugluch. The flight of the other is irritating. That is all.” He gestured with a long arm. The chitin flashed in the light.
Several short laborers were bringing something long and rectangular through the entrance. It looked uncomfortably like a coffin, for all that Jon-Tom knew it was designed to preserve his life, not his corpse.
“The means by which you will be transported safely to Cugluch,” the speaker explained unnecessarily. “The escort is ready. Now you will be made ready.”
Jon-Tom tried to take a step backward, only to find himself hemmed in on all sides. He was much taller than every one of the Plated Folk with the exception of the speaker, but they were stocky and strong.
“What do you mean, ‘ready’ me?”
The speaker elucidated. “One as clever and well versed in the arcane arts as you is always a threat, even without your magic-making instrument. I will take no chances on you working mischief during our journey, or on suiciding at the last moment.”
Long arms pushed. Jon-Tom felt himself shoved to one side. Looking past the speaker he could see something like a five-foot-long cockroach waiting patiently near the portal. An air-filled ovoid was strapped to its back. Within, he could see his ram wood staff, duar, and the rest of the supplies that had been salvaged from their raft. The laborers were strapping the air-filled bier onto the back of another.