“Now wait a minute!” Jon-Tom stepped forward and glared down at the tiny shapes. It seemed impossible anything so small and bland could be causing the kinkajou such agony.
A dozen tiny faces turned up at him and the power of those blank stares froze him in place. “Do not interfere,” said the one Jon-Tom had come to think of as the leader. “You cannot help. No one can help. He did not file properly and must pay the penalty.”
“Pay the penalty,” echoed the whey-faced demonic chorus.
“Come to think of it,” the leader continued, “have you filed?”
Jon-Tom stumbled backward. A huge, invisible fist had struck him in the gut. His breath came in short, painful gasps. Cautious started toward him but he waved the raccoon away.
“It’s okay, I’m all right.” He straightened, glaring down at the demon. “You still haven’t explained why you’re tormenting poor Couvier Coulb.”
“Indeed we have. He did not file. Anyone who does not file is visited by representatives of the IRS—the Inter-dimensional Reliquary of Spirits. Us.” Each word was uttered with utmost reverence by the demonic chorus.
“But he doesn’t know how to file. Hell, he shouldn’t have to file.”
“Hell says otherwise. Everyone has to file. It is required. It is the Law.”
“Not here it isn’t. You boys not only have the wrong individual, you’ve got the wrong world.”
“We do not have the wrong world. We cannot have the wrong world. We are infallible. We are always sent to the right place. He has not filed and therefore he must pay.”
“How do you expect him to comply with rules and regulations he knows nothing about?”
“Ignorance is no excuse,” the line of demons standing on the edge of the headboard intoned ritualistically. “He has been audited and found wanting. He must pay.”
“All right.” Jon-Tom reached toward his purse. “How much does he owe? I have some gold.”
“Money?” The leader’s lips formed a miniature bow of disapproval. “We do not accept money. We have come for his soul and we mean to have it and if you continue to interfere, man, we will take yours as well as interest earned. I, Lescar, Agent-in-Charge, say this.”
“Jon-Tom,” whispered Weegee urgently, “the goblet’s prediction!”
He stared at the tiny, threatening demon. Certainly his expression was lugubrious enough. Wildly he wondered if the goblet was also right about IBM.
“It doesn’t matter, Weegee. I have to get my duar fixed. Coulb’s the only one who can do it, so I have to try to help him. I think I’d try anyway. I don’t like these smartass bureaucratic types.”
“No one likes us,” the demons moaned. “We like no one. It does not matter. The end is never in doubt.”
“We’ll see about that.” He began strumming the suar’s strings, trying to think of an appropriate spellsong. What might have an effect on demons like these? Armies of the dead, skeletal apparitions, ogres and monsters of every description he could and had dealt with, but this was a different kind of evil, sly and subtle. It required spellsinging of equal cunning.
He started off with another bold rendition of Pink Floyd’s “Money.”
Though he was functioning without the power of the duar, the bedroom rang wih the sound of his voice. The house picked up on what he was trying to do and added a throbbing, contemporary backbeat. But no matter what song he tried or how well he played the demons simply ignored him as they concentrated their efforts on the rapidly weakening kinkajou.
Eventually Cautious put a gentle hand on Jon-Tom’s arm. “Might as well save your breath. Ain’t having no effect on them. Ain’t nothing gonna have an effect on them, maybe.”
Jon-Tom requested a glass of water, which Amalm readily provided. His throat was sore already. He’d been singing steadily for more than half an hour, with no visible effect on his opponents. Not one demon had disappeared. They continued their insidious harangue of Couvier Coulb.
“There’s got to be a way,” he mumbled. “There’s got to be.”
“Maybe spellsinging ain’t it.” Cautious looked thoughtful. “When I was a cub my grammam used to tell me ’bout magic, you bet. She always say you have to make the magic fit the subject. Doen look like you doing that, Jon-Tom.”
Was he going about it all wrong? But all he knew how to do was spellsing. He couldn’t use potions and powders like Clothahump. What was it the wizard was always telling him? “Always keep in mind that magic is a matter of specificity.”
Specifics. Instead of trying to adapt old songs to fit the situation, perhaps he should improvise new ones. He’d done that before. But what kind of lyrics would give such demons as these pause?
Fight fire with fire. Clothahump hadn’t said that, but somebody had.
He considered carefully. A gleam appeared in his eyes. His hand swept down once more over the suar. Take equal parts Dire Straits, Ratt, X and Eurythmics. Mix Adam Smith with Adam Ant. Add readings from The Economist and Martin Greenspan. Mix well and you have one savage synoptic song.
Heavy metal economics.
Instead of singing of love and death, of peace and learning and compassion, Jon-Tom began to blast out raw-edged stanzas full of free trade, reduced tariffs, and an international standard of taxation based on ecus instead of the dollar.
It staggered the demons. They tried to fight back with talk of protectionism and deficit financing, but they were no match for Jon-Tom musically. He struck hard with a rhythmic little ditty proposing a simplified income tax and no deductions that sent half of them scurrying for shelter, moaning and covering their ears.
Those remaining countered with an accusation about an unqualified deduction retroactive to the first date of filing, a vicious low blow that cracked the front of the suar and nearly knocked him off his feet. He recouped the ground briefly lost and more with the ballad of unlimited textile imports and suggestions for a free market in autos. When he slammed them with a flat tax tune it was more than the strongest among them could bear. They began to vanish, holding their briefcases defensively in front of them, dissolving in a refulgent gray cloud of letters and incomprehensible forms.
Still he sang of banking and barter, of one-page returns and other miracles, until the last of the cloud had dissipated. When he finally stopped it was as if the air in the room had been scoured clear of infection, every molecule handwashed and hung out to dry. He was hoarse and exhausted.
But Couvier Coulb was standing tall and straight by the side of his bed, assuring his sobbing housekeeper that if not completely cured he was surely on the way to total recovery.
At which point a fuzzy head popped into view atop the stairwell and declared at this solemn and joyful moment, “Damn, I thought I were goin’ to piss for a week!”
“As always, your timing never ceases to amaze me.” Jon-Tom had to struggle to form the words. His voice was a breathy rasping.
Mudge glanced rapidly around the bedchamber. “Timin’? Wot timin’? Now where are these ’ere demons everyone’s so worried about? I’m ready for ’em, I am. Big demons, little demons, let me at ’em.” He stode briskly into the room.
To her immense credit and Jon-Tom’s everlasting appreciation Weegee booted the otter right in the rear.
