“Now what are you about, young human?” Memaw had taken up a position next to the stern rudder.
“I like to pull my own weight.”
“Kind of you, but I’m afraid there aren’t any empty places. Each of us knows what to do. So just make yourself comfortable until we get to Quasequa.”
“All right, but I won’t like it.”
“You don’t have to like it.” She smiled cheerfully at him. “Now, sit down, stay out of our way, and behave yourself.”
“Yes ma’am.” He did as he was told.
Everyone except Splitch, who was lookout, bent to their oars. Turning neatly under Memaw’s guidance, the boat began to move south. Jon-Tom sat and fidgeted for as long as he could stand it before muttering to the helmsman.
“I don’t want to rock the boat, Memaw, but I can’t just sit here and let the rest of you do all the work. I wasn’t brought up like that.”
“Nonsense. There’s nothing you can do in any case. There are only eight oars.”
Jon-Tom considered, then said brightly, “I know.” He moved his duar into playing position. “I can sing some rowing songs.”
“Yeah! … great … good idea! … let’s ’ear ’im sing…!” the rowers chorused enthusiastically.
“No, no, no!” Mudge rushed to restrain Jon-Tom’s fingers. “You might magic us back to the ’ome o’ the Plated Folk, mate, or even worse.”
“Relax, Mudge. I’m just going to make a little music, not magic.”
“I’ve ’eard that one afore, I ’ave.” He took his argument to his brethren.
“’E’s a spellsinger all right. Trouble is, ’e ’as this sort o’ scattershot effect that…”
Jon-Tom was drowning out the otter’s pleading, singing cheerfully with the mass control on the duar turned halfway up. No way could Mudge be heard over that volume. The otter finally gave up and moved as far away from the singer as he could get without abandoning ship. He squatted down against the bow and waited. His eyes never left his friend’s instrument as he waited nervously for catastrophe to strike.
Jon-Tom modified an old Dionne Warwick standard and started off with a lilting little ditty newly titled “Do You Know the Way to Quasequa?” then segued into “By the Time I Get to the Quorumate.” As the boat continued to slide through the water without being obliterated, Mudge finally allowed himself to relax. Quorly helped him.
The words didn’t rhyme but that didn’t dampen Jon-Tom’s delight. Traveling songs were always fun to sing, and sailing songs even more so. Occasionally the otters would join in, their high-pitched squeaky tones gathering in strength as they picked up on the lyrics. It didn’t seem to matter that no two of them could harmonize. That blended in nicely with Jon-Tom’s erratic tenor, which is to say, not at all. But what they lacked in talent they made up for in enthusiasm. Somehow the boat stayed on course.
By the time Jon-Tom wrapped up a final chorus of “We Were Sailing Along on Moonlight Bay” and launched into “Row, Row, Row Your Boat,” Mudge was prepared to spend the rest of the cruise tied to the stern with his head underwater. “There’s one consolation for me in all this, mate,” he told Jon-Tom shakily between verses.
“What’s that?”
“There ain’t no torture too cruel, no ’orror too vile to contemplate, no death so slow that Markus the Ineluctable can inflict on me that’d be any worse than ’avin’ to endure this terrible tintinnabulation.”
“Why, Mudge”—Jon-Tom let loose with a couple of fresh riffs—“anyone would think you were some kind of music hater.”
“’Ow could they think that, mate, when there ain’t no music around for me to ’ate?”
Quorly traded places with Splitch and put both arms around the otter’s neck. “Why, Mudgey-Wudgey, don’t be such a sourpuss.” She brushed his whiskers with hers and he was forced to relent.
“Aw, well,” he allowed, “maybe there is a kind o’ music on this boat.”
Pinching fingers made Jon-Tom jump. He turned to see Sasswise grinning at him from her bench as she pushed steadily on her oar. “Quorly was right about you, Jonny-Tom. You are cute.”
Jon-Tom thought of another song very quickly.
XIII
AS THE DAYS PASSED and the miles accumulated beneath their keel, the character of the land they were passing through began to undergo a drastic change. The huge emergents dripping with moss and vines gave way to rust-colored palms and house-sized bushes erupting with rainbow-hued flowers. The water grew clear enough for them to see the sandy bottom fifty feet below. Even the sky changed as fog and mist fell behind them. The humidity dropped to a tolerable level and the light of midday became bearable.
They began to encounter communities constructed on stilts, and clusters of small fishing boats. The otters waved at the inhabitants and they waved back. The dark cloud that hung over this beautiful land was thus far only metaphorical. Everywhere Jon-Tom looked he saw signs of abundance and cheerful, busy people. There were even a few human beings.
Gradually, much larger islands replaced the smaller outlying ones. Buildings of reed and palm gave way to more permanent structures of wood and stone. Smoke curled from the chimneys of structures that climbed steep cliffs, while the homes of avians clung precariously to the topmost crags.
Clothahump had been vindicated. This was a magnificent, prosperous land. He told Mudge so.
“Oi, ’e was right about this much,” the otter reluctantly conceded. “All is wizardship did was neglect to tell us about that little stretch o’ filth and slime we ’ad to slog through to get ’ere. A triflin’ oversight, wot?”
Jon-Tom stared over the bow. “I just wish I knew more about this Markus.”
“Still think ’e’s come over from your world, mate?”
The expression on the spellsinger’s face reflected his uncertainty. “I don’t know what to think anymore, Mudge. I’m not as certain as I once was. I’d feel better about it if we could hear someone say something nice about him.” He took a deep breath. “Well, we’ll know all about him soon enough.”
Around him the otters were still singing, booming out all the songs he’d taught them during the past days with a vocal ferocity that was beginning to wear even on their instructor. His fingers were too tired for him to accompany them on the duar anymore, but that didn’t seem to matter.
“Don’t they ever slow up? Don’t they realize how serious this business could turn out to be?”
“They know ’tis serious, mate, and they’re actin’ as serious about it as they can be. See, one otter can be serious. Two otters can’t look at one another without crackin’ up. Get three or more o’ us together in one place for more than two minutes and you’ve got a nonstop party. Don’t worry about ’em, guv. They’re ’ell in a fight.”
“I can believe that. I’ve seen you fight.”
“This lot ain’t no different.”
“It is nice to have allies. Surely they’ll quiet down when we reach Quasequa. We don’t want to make a spectacle of ourselves when we pull into town.”
“Don’t count on gettin’ any quiet or decorum out of this lot. And remember, you’re the one who talked ’em into this.”
“I didn’t talk them into it.” Jon-Tom sounded defensive even to himself. “They volunteered.”
“Sorry, mate. You don’t get off that easy.”
“It’s just that if they don’t quiet down some, we’ll attract a lot of attention. I don’t want this Markus to know I’m around until I’m ready to meet with him.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry too much about that, guv. From wot sweet Quorly’s been tellin’ me, Quasequa’s a mighty big place, and plenty rowdy when ’tis on its good behavior. So we’re likely to blend right in.”
“You don’t care what happens anyway, do you, Mudge? Not so long as there are a couple of compliant ladies around.”
“Now don’t go gettin’ on me case because o’ that, mate. Just because you ’ave this peculiar puritanical streak in you that keeps yo
u from enjoyin’ the attention o’ others and because you ain’t ’ad much luck with your favorite red’ead.”
“Talea’s just taking her time before making a commitment,” Jon-Tom replied frostily.
“Lad, lad, she’s a free spirit, that one. Maybe she’ll come back to you and maybe she won’t. You might know about spellsingin’, but I knows about females. That’s a special kind o’ knowledge all its own.”
“You know how to talk, anyway.” He lapsed into silence for a while, found himself watching Memaw steer the boat, her paws steady on the rudder as she led her friends in the umpteenth rendition of “Anchors Aweigh.”
“As for this mob, I don’t guess I could get rid of them now even if I wanted to.”
“Not bloody likely,” Mudge agreed. “I keep tellin’ you to quit worryin’ about ’em. Remember, they didn’t ’ave no trouble stealin’ you away from the Plated Folk.”
“I know, I know. It’s just that I’d feel really guilty if any of them got hurt on my behalf.”
“This ain’t no bunch o’ cubs on this ship,” Mudge said somberly. “They know wot they’re gettin’ into.”
They were interrupted by Splitch’s shout from the front of the boat. “Quasequa!” Jon-Tom and Mudge rushed toward the bow as the rest of the otters pulled harder.
If Clothahump had underestimated the travails of their journey, he’d also underestimated the beauty of their destination. Three of the five main islands that composed the city proper were visible dead ahead. Multi-storied buildings built of quarried white limestone climbed the sides of each island’s central peak. Palm trees rustled in the gentle wind, and here and there a copper-clad roof showed bright bronze in the sun.
They were traveling among heavy traffic now. Most of the boats were smaller than theirs, a few with sails bulked larger. The Isle Drelft lay off to port, Isle Sofanza to starboard, and the central island called Quase Where the Quorumate Complex was located loomed straight ahead. Massive stone causeways connected all three islands, their multiple arches high enough for the majority of boat traffic to pass freely underneath. Carved shells and animal faces decorated each.
Crowds filled the causeways, the constant hum of their conversation reaching out across the water. The babble bespoke a vibrant community, full of life and commerce. Quasequa certainly didn’t strike Jon-Tom as a city about to fall under the domination of some alien tyrant. As yet, though, the citizens were not at war with their own government. As yet. If luck, skill, and charm were with him, the face of this exquisite metropolis would remain always as it was this morning. Flowers. He’d never seen so many flowers in one place. There were blossoms floating past on the water that were the size of his hand, shiny lavender striped with yellow. He lifted one from the surface and inhaled deeply of its lingering fragrance: pure peppermint.
Smaller boats hove alongside. They were populated by the familiar extraordinary assortment of intelligent species, all hawking handicrafts, dried fish, fresh fruits and vegetables, drinks chilled by ice spells, erotic art, and ship’s supplies. Memaw steered through them, ignoring the familiar pleas of the floating hawkers.
Flowers grew from the tops of trees, from the sides of buildings, out of neat green hedgerows that lined the streets, and even out on the open lake. Rubbery-looking lilylike pads slid past, their centers startling with clusters of tiny blue blossoms no bigger than Jon-Tom’s little fingernail. Still-smaller blossoms hung from silk balloons that floated through the warm air. When the breeze stilled they would settle to the water, only to rise again on the next puff of wind. They made the sky look as if it were full of flying rubies.
Memaw leaned on the rudder, and the boat turned slightly to port, angling for the low quays that lined the shore of Isle Quase.
“There is an inn we frequent during our visits here,” she told him. “A good place to eat and rest while digesting the newest rumors and juiciest gossip.”
“Everything seems so normal,” he told her. “The people look content. Maybe this Markus and I will get along after all.”
“Sometimes healthy fur can conceal rotting flesh. We shall see. Regardless, it will be nice to sleep in a real bed again.” She adjusted their course minutely and gestured at a two-story-tall rock edifice that lay dead ahead. It was built right down to the edge of the water.
“The chap who runs this place, Cherjal, is privy to just about everything that happens in Quasequa. He should be able to tell us whether there will be dangerous work awaiting you here or whether you can relax and enjoy the sights of the city.”
As they drew near, the reason for the inn’s location became clear. With its sitting right on the lake, it catered freely to water- and land-dwellers alike. They tied up to an empty slip, and Jon-Tom’s newfound allies ushered him inside.
The single large eating and drinking room had a low-domed ceiling and was crammed with chattering muskrats, beavers, nutrias, and capybaras in addition to unfamiliar otters. Water entered via an opening to the lake, permitting the easy entry of an occasional freshwater porpoise.
Thunder boomed outside. They’d arrived just ahead of a tropical thunderstorm. Through the openings to the lake, Jon-Tom could see the heavy drops churning the smooth surface and was glad they’d pulled in when they had. Inside the inn, all was snug and dry.
Memaw left them seated at several tables, returned a few moments later with the proprietor. Jon-Tom didn’t rise to greet him. The ceiling, lined with shiny sea-green tile, was too low.
Cherjal was a large koala. He wore an apron, vest, the ubiquitous short pants, and a bright blue scarf around his forehead. He let out a tired groan as he plopped down in an empty chair and regarded his new guests.
Jon-Tom sipped at his sweet cider and waited patiently while Cherjal exchanged pleasantries with the rest of the otters. The floor was full of drains, and the dampness of the room reflected the inn’s largely riparian clientele. There was no sign of mold or mildew, however, and he suspected the place was scrubbed clean every night. Still, he couldn’t escape the feeling that he was sitting inside an enormous terrarium.
“So how go zee feeshing, Memaw?”
She shrugged and set down the dope stick she’d been puffing on. Jon-Tom had already taken one whiff of the pungent smoke and set temptation aside. He needed all his wits about him now, and half that stick would’ve laid him flat.
“Not bad. Our trip turned out to be full of interesting digressions, however, hence our early return. We happened upon this tall human chap and his friend and helped them out of a difficult spot. This is Jon-Tom.”
“Hi.” He extended a hand, was surprised by the koala’s powerful grip.
“His friend Mudge is around somewhere. Well, no matter.” She leaned across the table. “What does matter is something we stumbled across where the Lakes meet the Wrounipai: a complete colony of water-dwelling Plated Folk.”
“Plated Folks?” Cherjal’s eyes widened. “How shocking a discoveree thees be! How reemarkable. How frighteneeng.”
“Yeah, it sucks,” Frangel agreed.
“Indeed, indeed.” Cherjal considered. “Sometheeng must be done about thees. These Plated Theengs cannot be allowed to colonize our waters. An expeedeetion must be mounted to wipe theem away.”
“There is no need to panic, my good friend.” Memaw crossed silver-furred arms. “The colony is not that big, and we left them with sufficient to think about to keep them from causing trouble for a while.” Mutters of agreement sounded from the rest of the band, except for Mudge. He was too busy stuffing himself with freshly broiled fish to care much about the conversation.
“So you come back to mee early. What can I do for my favorite lady, heh?”
“Always the flatterer, Cherjal.” She smiled across the table at him.
It was raining harder than ever now. Jon-Tom could hear the drops drumming on the roof. The warmth from so many furry bodies and the thick scent of their mixed musk was making him sleepy. It would be so nice just to find a warm bed and lie down and s
leep for about two days.
Unfortunately, he couldn’t do that. Not just yet.
“We need to know what this new advisor to the Quorum is like, what his plans are, and what he’s been up to,” he asked Cherjal.
“So. You weesh about Markus the Ineluctable information, heh?” Right away the koala lost some of his good humor. “I have plenty I can tell you, yes, and not much of eet much nice.
“Nobodies took much notice of eet when he defeated Oplode the Sly. The cheef advisor spends hees time mostly advising the Quorum. Very leetle of what hee do treeckles down to us ordinary ceeteezens. Then thee rumors up-started. Steel nobodies pays much attention. As long as it don’t much affect their lives, thee people preety much ignore what thee government gets up to.” Cherjal lowered his voice and took a moment to check the inhabitants of the tables nearby before continuing.
“They say thees Markus setting up hees own network of spies. Eenformers in Quasequa, can you imagine?” He shook his head in disbelief at his own revelation. “Theen last week eet finally happening. At first nobody believe it. Thee shock steel not settled een, I theenk. That’s why everything look so normal around town.”
“Believe wot?” Sasswise asked him.
“What thees new weezard he done. He dissolve thee Quorum. Temporarily, hee say, unteel a new one can be chosen. Meanwhile he running Quasequa all by heemself.”
A new voice interrupted loudly. “I knew it!”
All eyes turned. “You knew what, Mudge?” Jon-Tom asked.
“I knew we should’ve stayed ’ome.”
“Calm down.” He looked nervously over the otter’s head, but none of the other patrons appeared in the least bit interested in the conversation taking place at the far side of the room. Of course, a good informer wouldn’t reveal his interest. “We’re still not sure who’s done what,” he told the otter softly.
“No, eet ees certain not yet who is completely altogether responseeble,” Cherjal admitted. “But thee rumors they say also that thees Markus has put all the members of the Quorum who don’t support heem into the dungeons beneath the Quorumate. Seence nobodies can get een to see heem or them, thees can’t be verified, and the members who come and go as they please, like Kindore and Vazvek, won’t say what they must know.”