“We don’t argue that.” The voice was that of a squat long-whiskered mole who eyed Jon-Tom from behind thick, extremely dark glasses. He was brandishing a four-inch-long bone blade. “But he ain’t here no more, minstrel, and you are.”
“I’m not a minstrel.” Jon-Tom overtopped most of the crowd. Now he tried to take advantage of his height to make himself as imposing as possible. “I am a spellsinger.”
“Then prove it,” snapped the mole, “and I don’t mean by making pretty colors in the air.”
“You’re damn right I’ll prove it!” He was shaking, partly from anger and partly from fright. “I said I’d conjure up a boat and conjure up a boat I will.”
While he’d been arguing with the crowd a far more appropriate song had come to him. Confident now, he turned back to face the waters of Yarr Bay. Once more he began to sing, once again his fingers danced over the suar’s strings, and this time something far more cohesive than colored lights began to take shape atop the water. No gneechees swirled curiously around it, but he wasn’t singing for the gneechees this time. He was concentrating on his song.
Part of the problem stemmed from the fact that not many rock songs dealt with boats or ships. He didn’t dare use the Beach Boys’ “Sloop John B.” again. That had been a near disaster. So the song he sang now was one of his own devising, improvised words set to the official theme music by Walter Sharf for the old Cousteau television specials. Add a little reggae and what more suitable combination of themes for calling up a proper boat? Perhaps he might even create a copy of the famed Calypso itself. Let the natives sneer until he confronted them with the reality of a modern, diesel-powered craft.
Several members of the crowd broke and ran. Most remained to stare in awe. Yes, conjure up the Calypso with its radar and complex electronics! Doubt his ability, would they? Double-stringed or single-stringed instrument in hand, he’d show them what a spellsinger was all about.
Twisting and flickering, the intense lights pirouetted above the disturbed surface of the bay. As he brought his vibrant, improvised tune to a rousing conclusion the lights softened and ran together, began to condense and solidify to form a cloud of pink incandescence which finally blew apart to reveal floating lightly on the water—a boat.
On its bow it bore the outline of a golden merman and the legend CALYPSO. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the famed Calypso itself that bobbed gently in the backwater eddy. It wasn’t even a reasonable facsimile.
It was a zodiac, one of the inflatable rubber craft that the crew of the Calypso utilized for short excursions away from the main ship. It was not very impressive.
“What the hell’s that?” The lynx leaned forward and squinted at the black-skinned apparition.
“Floats it does, but t’aint no boat for sure,” commented someone else near the back of the crowd of onlookers.
“Of course it’s a boat.” Now Jon-Tom was angry as well as frustrated. “Any idiot can see it’s a boat. What else could it be but a boat?”
“It’s no boat.” A rat clad in shorts and a shirt with puffed sleeves waded into the murky water to poke at the zodiac’s flanks. “It’s just a big balloon.” He tapped the big black outboard motor that hung from the zodiac’s stern. “What’s this funny-looking hunk of metal for?”
The crowd’s initial astonishment was rapidly giving way to a general feeling that they’d been had. To them a boat was a creature the length of a dock and tall as a three-story building, with billowing sails, intricate rigging and a wooden hull. What a boat was not was a flattened bunch of black balloons. Knives began to appear in profusion, brandished in company with numerous homicidal expressions. They’d wanted a boat, they’d paid for a boat, and by the ancestor of every creature present they were damn well going to have a proper boat or else they were going to take it out of this so-called spellsinger’s hide.
And where was the crew of lithesome lovelies?
“All right,” Jon-Tom told them, “I’ll prove to you that this is a boat.”
“Pillows,” growled the lynx, taking a step forward. He grinned, showing dirty fangs. “You know what I think? I think I’ve been cheated, that’s what I think.”
“It’s a goddamn boat!” Trying not to show the anxiety he was feeling, he walked into the water, pushed the rat aside, and sat down in the back of the zodiac. The bow rose slightly.
“See? A bunch of pillows wouldn’t support my weight like this.” The mob was crowding toward the water’s edge, muttering loudly. “And this is a magic oar.” He primed the engine, praying it would start when he hit the ignition.
The mole peered through his black glasses at the outboard. “Looks like a bunch of junk to me.”
“No, I’ll prove it, see? All you have to do is press this button.” He did so. The engine rumbled, making the crowd retreat slightly. It coughed, spat and died.
“Hornets,” shouted the lynx, “he’s got hornets in there!”
“I don’t see any,” said the rat. “It’s a trick. He’s trying to scare us with tricks!”
The mob surged forward. Praying as hard as he ever had in his brief life, Jon-Tom stabbed the ignition button again and held it down. Come on baby, he said silently, turn over, turn over!
The engine threw black smoke in the face of the advancing lynx, kicked in, and sent the zodiac shooting out across the calm water of the bay, snarling like a lost motocross bike. It was followed by a number of sharp-edged pointed objects which fell far short of their goal. A few choice, equally pointed insults did reach him but did no damage.
But what now? His outraged audience did not appear pacified by this incontrovertible proof that the object he had conjured up was indeed a boat. Probably still looking for the promised crew, he mused. They continued to jump up and down on the shore, screaming unheard imprecations and gesticulating obscenely in his direction. He would have to wait and circle back up the river after nightfall, find some secluded anchorage, and try to make his inglorious way back to Lynchbany under cover of darkness.
First he had to wend his way through the harbor traffic. Bearing down on him already was a huge ocean-going catamaran. The double hull contained the lower-class passenger compartments, the upper deck the rooms for those traveling first class, while the cargo was slung in nets between the hulls. This enabled the catamaran to run smartly up over a low dock without having to remove cargo from inside the ship.
He turned to port and the catamaran appeared to swerve to bear down on him. Each hull boasted a pair of masts, one square-rigged for speed, the other fore-rigged for maneuverability. It wasn’t maneuvering to his liking now. Had someone on shore somehow communicated with a relative or friend in charge of the ship? The zodiac could run circles around anything in Yarrowl harbor, but it was distressing to think the entire city might be roused against him so quickly.
As the starboard hull of the big ship slid past him something tumbled over the side. Instinctively he winced, but it was only a rope. He recognized the face leaning over the railing.
“Don’t just squat there like a bug on a rock, mate,” Mudge shouted. “Grab hold and tie on!”
In disbelief Jon-Tom gaped at the otter. Then he swung the zodiac around and accelerated to catch up with the catamaran. Catching hold of the trailing line, he secured it to the hole in the zodiac’s bow and shut off the engine as sailors pulled him close to the hull. A sea ladder was extended to him. Making his way carefully hand over hand, he soon found himself standing on the deck looking back at curious sailors and well-dressed passengers. A grinning Mudge saluted briskly and then stepped clear. Jon-Tom brushed his hair out of his eyes and started for the otter.
“Hold off a minim, mate. I know wot you’re thinkin’.”
“No you don’t. If you did, you’d already have jumped overboard.”
Mudge continued to retreat, well aware he could dodge Jon-Tom’s lunges with ease. “Think it through, lad. You really didn’t think you were goin’ to conjure up a proper craft with that shadow o’ a duar, did you?”
“Why not?”
“Because you couldn’t do it when you ’ad your duar, that’s why.”
Jon-Tom halted. Three times he’d sung his song, and the best he’d been able to do was the little zodiac. A fine craft for exploring a lake or cruising up a river, but not the sort of thing one would choose to cross an ocean in, especially after the couple of gallons of fuel the engine contained ran out.
“Soon as I saw ’ow things weren’t goin’ with your spellsingin’,” the otter went on, “I sort of took the first opportunity to make a discreet exit and locate emergency transportation. A fine ship an’ a cooperative captain ’ave agreed to carry us as far as the island kingdom o’ Orangel. That’s where this vessel’s bound. Orangel’s more than ’alf the way to Chejiji. From there we won’t ’ave no trouble ’irin’ transportation to the southern shores, or so says our Captain. A substantial payment insured a slight change o’ course to pluck you from the water. Money we now ’ave in plenty, thanks to your performance.”
“Mudge, you guaranteed those spectators magic. You of all people should know that spellsinging isn’t an infallible discipline, much less when I’m trying to make it work with a back-up instrument. Suppose I hadn’t been able to conjure up my small inflatable craft and get away? What then?”
