Drunken laughter, shouts, blithe obscenities filled the air. Cautious gestured for them to slow down as they neared a place where much of the underbrush had been cleared away.

It was an ideal anchorage. Morgels and cypress gave way to a wide sandy beach. The action of the current had cut a small inlet into the shore and a crude dock had been built out into the water. The ketch was moored to this ramshackle jetty. On the beach a single large one-story structure had been erected. It had the look of an old warehouse. Perhaps at one time some hopeful entrepreneur had tried to start a plantation in this part of the world, only to eventually abandon it and several smaller outbuildings to the unyielding swamp from whence it had subsequently been reclaimed by the pirates.

A few of the brigands were much closer than the beach. All were in an advanced state of intoxication. They were lying or standing around an isolated wepper tree, playing paddle ball with something hanging from one branch. Jon-Tom had to physically restrain Mudge from rushing forward.

Weegee’s wrists and ankles were bound together by a single rope. Her head hung toward the ground. She had not been gagged. As far as her tormentors were concerned this only added spice to the game. As they swung her dizzily back and forth she tried to take a mouthful of flesh out of each of her persecutors, who would dance aside as her teeth neared them, laughing and taunting one another. Two of them were utilizing long paddles both to protect their fingers and enhance the sport. The solid bang of wood on fur and flesh echoed across the clearing.

“Rotten bloody bastards.”

Jon-Tom kept his hand on his friend’s trembling shoulder. “Easy, Mudge. We’ve rested all day. They haven’t. At the rate they’re collapsing they’ll all be asleep soon enough. Then we’ll get ’em. Don’t look.”

“I ’ave to look, mate. I ’ave some faces to memorize.”

Jon-Tom’s appraisal of the pirates’ condition proved correct. Half an hour later the last one erect took a wild swipe at the swinging body of Weegee before crumpling to the ground. The onlookers waited another ten minutes to be sure the corsair’s stupor was all-encompassing before Cautious gave the word.

“We go get her away fast, you bet.”

“Right.” Jon-Tom rose and broke through the remaining brush. “And remember, Mudge; no unnecessary killing.”

The raccoon frowned at the man, then looked to the otter. “He always talk like that?”

“Don’t pay ’im no mind. ’E can’t ’elp it. The poor sod’s the victim o’ a deformed set o’ ethics.”

Staying close together they emerged into the clearing. There was no sign of Sasheem or the rest of the crew. Probably sleeping on board the ketch or inside the main building, Jon-Tom reflected.

Weegee was unconscious, exhausted and dazed from hanging upside down for too many hours. Mudge greeted her with that delicate rapid-fire succession of kisses otters employ as he put a paw over her mouth to keep her from shouting out in surprise. She bit him gently.

“About time you got here.”

Mudge worked on the knots securing her wrists and ankles. “Wot made you so sure I was comin’?”

“Because I’m your only true love. You told me so, at least four dozen times on the ship.”

“Right, but I’ve an ignoble memory.”

“It’s good enough for me.” Mudge reached for his knife to cut the main rope and she hurried to protest. “Better not, unless you’re prepared to catch me. If I fall on my fundament it’s liable to shatter, considering the pounding it’s taken the past couple of days.”

“Creeps.” He used the point of the blade to work the knots free. Jon-Tom finished the job as the otter set her gently on her feet. Her muscles were so cramped she could hardly stand, let alone walk. As she fought for balance an old seadog came limping out of the main building. He was missing one leg and walked with a crutch. Jon-Tom recognized him as an original member of the pirate crew from their earlier sojourn on Corroboc’s ship; this was the one who had tried to warn the unfortunate captain of the danger Jon-Tom and his companions presented.

There was no time to retreat. The veteran saw them and began yelling at the top of his aged lungs. “Up, everybody up! By my tail, the water rat and the magician have come back for us!”

Mudge let Weegee balance against the raccoon, slipped his longbow off his back, and put a feathered shaft into the alarmist’s neck. Too late. The cry did none of Weegee’s recent tormentors any good because Cautious, utilizing a wicked little curved knife, rapidly made the rounds of the inebriated and cut their throats where they lay.

The only survivor was a lynx who had passed out unnoticed beneath a bush. He reached out to trip the retreating Jon-Tom and send him sprawling.

“Clumsy man,” Weegee chided him, “get on your feet!”

Not enough time, as pirates erupted from the warehouse.

“This way quick or we are lost.” Cautious beckoned frantically from the undergrowth.

Jon-Tom rolled to his knees and stood, holding his ramwood staff out in front of him. Weegee and Cautious had already vanished into the vegetation and Mudge wasn’t far behind. He was alone in the middle of the clearing.

A great calm settled over him. Perhaps it was better that it end this way. Mudge had helped him so many times it seemed only fitting that Jon-Tom should perform a final service for the otter. After all, this was their world, not his. Better Mudge and Weegee should live out their lives where they belonged than sacrifice themselves in aid of an alien. He flicked the concealed switch in the staff’s shaft and six inches of steel snapped out of the base.

“Come on then. What are you waiting for?”

The onrushing brigands slowed to a halt, eyeing him warily. “I know ’im.” The speaker was a muscular beaver with a patch over his left eye. “That’s the spellsinger, it is.” Murmurs of recognition came from those around him.

None wanted to be the first to challenge the tall human. Those who had sailed with Corroboc remembered the havoc Jon-Tom and his companions had wrought. They rapidly enlightened those newer recruits who hadn’t been on that earlier expedition.

The stand-off was purely mental. The instant Jon-Tom turned and tried to run they would realize he was afraid of them and cut him down in a minute. If he charged they might scatter in panic—but if just one stood his ground and fought back, the others would realize they had nothing to fear from their taller opponent. Nor could he allow the stalemate to continue indefinitely. Time favored numbers.

Carefully he set the ramwood aside and swung the suar around in front of him. He was relying on the hope that enough time had passed for the pirates who remembered him to have forgotten the details of what his duar looked like. If he could conjure something, anything at all, even a small cloud of harmless gneechees, it might be enough to frighten his opponents away.

But before he could commence playing, a new figure, taller and more massive than any of the other brigands, forced his way through the line. He halted a safe distance from the spellsinger. Half a dozen stilettoes were sheathed in the bandolier that crossed his broad chest. His tail twitched back and forth, back and forth, and only the first half was flesh, fur and blood.

“Greetings, man. I never expected to see you again.”

“Hello, Sasheem. Roseroar sends her regrets.”

“Regrets? What regrets would the tigress leave with me?”

“That she wasn’t able to bid you farewell in person.”

The leopard chuckled, quite able to appreciate the bloodthirsty humor inherent in Jon-Tom’s remark. “I’m sure the big lady would have made a coat out of me if she’d had half the chance.” He examined the clearing, the rope dangling empty from the tree, the several sailors lying sprawled on the ground with their lives leaking from their slit throats. “You’d risk your life for a single female?”

“I see no reason to trouble you with my motives, which I doubt you’d understand. You remember me. You remember Roseroar. You should remember the others as well.”

“Ah, the otter with the touchy manner and toilet mouth. One arrives, two depart. A relationship?”

“Weegee was his,” Jon-Tom struggled for the right word, “fiancee.”

Sasheem nodded. “Some sense at last. Not a bad swap; a spiteful and sharp-toothed female for a spellsinger.”

“Who said anything about a swap? I’ll be leaving now.” He took a step backward.

Sasheem kept the distance between them unchanged. “No, I don’t think you will, spellsinger, or you would have gone already.” Sure enough, the sharp-eyed leopard had spotted that which had escaped the notice of his colleagues. “That’s not the same instrument you carried before. I know that a spellsinger must have a certain special instrument else he will be unable to perform his magic. Can it be that you have misplaced both?”

Jon-Tom strummed the suar, smiled thinly at the big cat. “Take another step closer and find out.”

“Careful, mate,” said the lynx on Sasheem’s flank. “Remember how he betwitched us the last time. Maybe he’s just taunting us. Mayhap this stringed snake he holds is as dangerous as the other.”

“If it is, then why is he standing there wasting his time talking to us while his friends put space between them?”

Jon-Tom was staring at him. “‘Mate.’ He called you mate. Aren’t you the captain now?”

Sasheem seemed surprised. “Captain, me? Of course I’m not the captain here. I’ve never aspired to captaincy.”