The otter’s tone, his choice of words and his posture combined to make a statement Jon-Tom was not long in assessing. Only a natural disbelief caused him to hesitate before noting the obvious. It was as if a basic law of nature had been contravened, as though one of the great pyramids at Giza had crumbled to dust in a single day.

“Mudge, you’re in love.”

“So good o’ you to notice.” Not once did he take his eyes from the vision of sleek brown-furred loveliness sprawled on the deck chair not far away.

“No, I mean really in love, Mudge. As opposed to in lust. I can hear it in your voice and see it in your face.”

“Then I expect ’tis so, spellsinger. I’ve never felt like this before, I ’aven’t. Why, me insides ’ave turned all to crikleberry jelly.”

“You know her name, so obviously you’ve met. Why don’t you introduce me?”

“Wot, now?”

“Why not now?”

“Well, I don’t know—yes I do. Come on, mate.”

Jon-Tom allowed the otter to lead him onto the central deck. The lady was lying half asleep and Jon-Tom had to prod his companion to say something, as it seemed Mudge would have been quite content simply to stand there and stare until they docked in Orangel.

“Amber face, are you awake, luv?”

She opened her eyes and quickly took in the both of them. “Hello, Mudge.”

A sweet, seductive voice, Jon-Tom thought, one that curled around each vowel as slickly as an otter would curl around a fish; toying with it, playing with it before finally devouring it. He was conscious of bottomless black eyes studying him intently. “This must be the friend you spoke of.” She half twisted, half jumped out of the deck chair, gave one leg a final shake. Water droplets sparkled in the air.

“Come now, tall man, bend down and give us a kiss.” Jon-Tom glanced uncertainly at his companion, only to find Mudge grinning back at him. So he bent over and tried to bestow a quick peck on one furry cheek. Much too fast for him, she turned and treated him to a full otterish buss on the lips, which consisted of a rapid-fire series of wet bewhiskered smacks smelling vaguely of mackerel. Contact with a cold black nose completed the extraordinary sensation, not unlike having one’s mouth attacked by a fishy jackhammer.

She pulled back and cocked her head sideways at him. “He’s shy. You didn’t say he was shy.”

“’E’s married an’ a spellsinger an’ ’e’s from another world. Wot did you expect, luv? Normalcy?”

“Not from a spellsinger.”

Straightforward as an arrow, Jon-Tom thought, shifting uncomfortably under that uncompromising stare. Otters were not a subtle race. He watched as she reached over to muss the fur on Mudge’s forehead just below the brim of his green cap. Diaphanous material swirled around her lithesome form and her fur gleamed like brass in the midday sun.

“So you’re his best friend?” Jon-Tom glanced at Mudge in surprise. The otter shrugged.

“Well, for want o’ a better choice. Anyway, you’re ’ere.”

“That sounds more like it,” he said.

“What am I to make of your companion, Jon-Tom? He’s been trying to get me into bed with him from the moment we met. Do you think I should?”

“Ah, hey now, friends, I—that is…” He stopped stammering when he saw they were both grinning at him. Mudge put an arm around her and she didn’t resist or pull away.

“She’s just teasin’ you, mate. You ought to know otters that well by now. We took care o’ that little detail right away.”

“Yes, and we have a lot of work to do to get it right,” she added pleasantly.

“Uh huh. Swell meeting you, Weegee. Now if the two of you will excuse me, I have an appointment to make a fool of myself somewhere else.”

“Don’t do it here,” she chided him. “I’m sorry if I embarrassed you. Mudge said you were easily embarrassed and I wanted to find out for myself. Now come and sit down.” She grabbed his arm and practically yanked him into the empty deck chair next to hers, sat down and crossed her short legs over her lower torso, the latter a spine-destroying trick that only someone with the backbone of an otter could manage.

“Now then: tell me all about yourself.”

Jon-Tom flicked his gaze sideways. “Hasn’t Mudge done that already.”

“Yes, but I’ve known Fastfingers long enough to realize that in addition to his many talents he is also an incorrigible liar. So tell me about yourself, and about him, and about anything else you think I might be interested in. I’m all ears.” She wiggled the short brown ones atop her head. “Mudge says that you’re as trustworthy, honest and open as you are naive and ignorant.”

“I see.” He looked up at his companion, who had suddenly found something of interest to study in the water below. “I’d be glad to. When I first found Mudge and dragged him from the gutter in Lynchbany where he was lying in a drunken stupor. …”

The otter’s outraged bark echoed throughout the ship.

As the days passed Jon-Tom rarely saw Mudge far from Weegee’s side. The more they talked, the better he liked her. She was one of those rare otters whose sense of playfulness and joie de vivre did not prevent her from functioning effectively in an urban context. Most otters didn’t have the patience to make a go of it in the world of commerce.

She found the stories of their travels and adventures fascinating. Who wouldn’t, considering what he and Mudge had been through this past year? And when the otter’s embroidery grew too elaborate, Jon-Tom was always there to inject a dose of reality into his companion’s narcissistic fantasies.

He was delighted to see that Mudge’s feelings for her were being reciprocated and that what he initially viewed as a typical shipboard romance was ripening into something deeper and more substantial. He was quite prepared to lose a traveling companion to true love. Mudge had never been thrilled about galavanting around with the spellsinger anyway.

For his part, in spite of all the trouble Mudge had caused him in the past, Jon-Tom was quite fond of the irrepressible otter. Weegee might be strong enough and stable enough to settle him. Mudge needed that kind of influence if he was to see middle age. Nor did Jon-Tom have to build the otter up in Weegee’s eyes. Mudge did quite a good job of that all by himself, and Weegee was sensible and perceptive enough to discard ninety-five percent of everything her paramour said. The remaining five percent was remarkable enough, if only Mudge would realize it.

It was a pleasure to watch their relationship grow, to witness the change in Mudge from indifferent seducer to protective companion. To see him finally mature a little from drunken carouser into a thoughtful, attentive being.

Until one day hopes new and old were shattered at a single stroke.

The alarm rang at night when all of the passengers and most of the crew were asleep. It was only through the courage and alertness of one of the night watch, a brave little aye-aye with an outsize voice, that the warning was given at all and utter disaster thereby averted.

At the first clang of the alarm bell Mudge was out of bed and donning clothes and weapons. Jon-Tom was still struggling with his pants when a couple of heavily armed pangolins came stumbling into their cabin. Each was barely four feet tall and carried a short hooked sword. One wore a bloodstained bandana around his head. Neither was dressed to waltz.

After breaking in the door the first intruder ran straight into Mudge’s short sword, which pierced the throat just beneath the chin and above the animal’s armor. Blood gushed in all directions as the second pangolin swung at Mudge, who somehow managed to dodge aside while the first fell on top of him. So involved was the intruder with the otter that he neglected to spot Jon-Tom on the other side of the room. The club end of Jon-Tom’s ramwood staff rectified this oversight while simultaneously putting out the invader’s lights.

“Thanks, mate!” The otter shoved the body of his assailant aside and bounded to his feet. Shouts mixed with an occasional scream filtered down from above. “Let’s up an’ at ’em.”

After a discreet survey proved the hallway to be deserted, the otter led Jon-Tom toward the stairs at the far end.

“Hurry it up, mate.”

Jon-Tom was trying to run and step into his pants at the same time. “I’m coming as fast as I can, or do you expect me to fight without any pants?”

“Why not? Would you rather be embarrassed or dead?”

Wearing only his pants, a bare-chested, barefooted Jon-Tom followed his friend up the stairway. They emerged on deck in the midst of darkness, confusion and carnage.

Another ship had fastened itself to the portside hull. The ketch was old and beat-up but evidently seaworthy enough to tackle the much larger caramaran. It was also home to an astonishing variety of cutthroats and thugs, who continued to swarm over the gunwales onto the freighter.

Their plan was as simple as their intentions were obvious: wait until dark, then slip quietly aboard and exterminate the officers and crew in their bunks. Then they could sample cargo and passengers at their leisure. Unfortunately for them the alert aye-aye had died a hero’s death while sacrificing his life to raise the alarm. This had roused not only the crew but the passengers as well, most of whom knew their way around a weapon or two. As this was not Bel-Air or Brentwood, most of the citizens carried some form of personal defense. As a consequence the pirates found themselves badly outnumbered and being forced steadily back toward their ship.

A few had managed to secure some booty in those first frantic minutes before the ship’s complement had been aroused. They hurried back toward the ketch with their arms full of stolen goods. The deck was slippery with blood. The dangerous, uncertain footing was more to the pirates’ disadvantage than that of the defenders.