Chorus Skating (8 page)

This energetic request did nothing to lessen the air of apprehension that was increasingly evident among their would-be assailants.

Jon-Tom fingered the duar. “I haven't really had time to compose anything appropriate.”

“Right, right, that's wot you always say,” Mudge whispered urgently through his whiskers. “I don't think you need to extend yourself, I don't. Take a good look at this lot. Don't exactly set one to quakin' with uncontrollable terror, do they? Give 'em a bit o' a fright an' I'll wager they'll break an' run.”

“They'd better,” Jon-Tom replied. “We're badly outnumbered, and I can't swing a sword like I used to.”

“You never could swing a sword, mate. So I reckon you'd better sing.” The otter kept his bow at the ready.

Jon-Tom hadn't been forced to use his talents in a defensive capacity in longer than memory served, but he still remembered how to coax some formidable sounds from the duar. His first attempt had an immediate effect on the lost chords, which trembled and shuddered as if in pain. Its reaction to Jon-Tom's efforts differed little from those of Mudge and numerous others.

There was no denying their effectiveness, however. Recognizing that there had been perhaps one or two occasions in the past when his spellsinging had gotten them into trouble, Jon-Tom endeavored to conjure up not a ravening horde to drive their attackers from the ravine, but instead nothing more elaborate than a single modestly intimidating specter he could control. Just enough to terrify the bandits into fleeing.

An outline began to take shape on the far side of the fire, between the bandits and their chosen victims. This was sufficient to convince all but the ocelot to take several prudent steps backward. Their leader defiantly held his ground.

“Trickery! All smoke and light, can't you see?” he shouted at his unnerved companions. “Any carnival conjurer could do as well.”

“See, look and see there!” stammered the raccoon.

Something squat and solid was solidifying within the growling, swirling nimbus that emanated from the duar's lambent nexus. The attendant atmospheres began to dissipate, leaving behind … an owl. An owl neatly attired in a gray, freshly pressed, pin-striped suit. Matching tie, watch fob, and horn-rimmed glasses completed and complemented the overall presentation.

It wasn't even a very big owl. Even the squirrel was taller.

The ocelot nodded approvingly. “So I was wrong. Apparently there
are
such creatures as spellsingers, and you manifestly are one.” He grinned, showing sharp teeth. “You're simply not
much
of a spellsinger.” He beckoned to his followers. “See, there is nothing here to be afeared of! This apparition is not even armed.”

“No, wait.” The capuchin gestured frantically as his companions started forward. “Surely it is carrying something.”

Reaching back with a prehensile wingtip, the owl had brought forth a slim briefcase fashioned of smooth black leather. It brandished this enigmatic device threateningly at the ocelot.

The cat laughed, a high-pitched cough. With a determined effort he raised the blade of the massive sword off the ground. “First I will dispatch this avian interloper.” His eyes blazed across the fire. “Then I will cut off your legs. We've done fair by you and given several chances. Now let the blood flow!”

“Of course.” Peering through thick glasses, the owl fumbled inside the briefcase. “But before we can move on to that, I am afraid you will first have to fill this out.”

Eyeing the paper uncertainly, the ocelot hesitated. “Fill what out? What are you talking about?”

“Form XL-3867-B1,” the owl explained apologetically. “Permitting random acts of assault and mayhem on the person of not more than six nor less than one innocent traveler. I assure you it includes the appropriate attempted robbery and looting subrider.”

“I don't have to fill out anything except my purse,” the spotted cat growled. “We don't need no stinking forms.” With that he raised the sword high. “I will fill my bed with your feathers!”

Quickly the owl reached a second time into the briefcase. “In that case,” it declared, waving this time a whole sheaf of clipped-together papers, “I am required to advise you to read these three official pamphlets warning you of the penalties incurrable for committing the aforementioned referenced assault and mayhem without filling out Form XL-3867-B1 beforehand. Should you fail to do so, your permit to wield mayhem-related weaponry will be automatically withdrawn, as per the proper and appropriate statutes.”

Looking slightly dazed, the ocelot paused, the massive blade drooping slightly in his hands.

“Furthermore,” the owl went on, dipping yet again into the bottomless briefcase, “there are a number of other relevant forms that really should be completed prior to initiating any inimical activities, in addition to papers for ethereally notifying next of kin on both sides, in the event any actual deaths should occur.” He adjusted his glasses. “I would also highly recommend filling out a complete environmental impact statement, since there is a distinct possibility of polluting this pristine pond with blood and other bodily wastes. It will save you a lot of trouble later.” Eyes narrowing, he squinted at the ocelot's companions-in-arms.

“Each of you, of course, should really fill out your own set of forms. It's only proper jurisprudential procedure.” He turned back to their leader. “You should also submit, in triplicate, Request Form 287-B and C, granting you exclusive rights to mug, assault, rob, and otherwise impose upon these two travelers. Prior to swinging that weapon, of course.”

By this time the ocelot's eyes had completely glazed over. Swaying slightly, unable either to raise the deadly sword or flee, he stood motionless while the owl rambled on, until the benumbed carnivore had vanished completely beneath a suffocating and steadily mounting pile of white paper, with a few yellow and pink forms tossed in for color.

“… Batch Form four hundred and twelve,” the owl droned on, “which simply
must
be turned in within twenty-four hours of rendering a victim into more than eleven pieces, but not less than three. Unless attached addenda ten and twelve have been filed beforehand, in which case …”

From within the burgeoning mountain of forms a faint, desperate voice could be heard crying for help. Or perhaps begging for mercy: The words were so thickly muffled that Jon-Tom couldn't be sure.

Led by the old mandrill, the rest of the bandits rushed forward to attack the pile. But the paper piled up faster than they could hack it away, a veritable torrent of forms, requisition sheets, and contracts, until the entire band found themselves overwhelmed and enveloped.

The avalanche spread out in high, curling waves, swamping the fire and sending the travelers' supper crashing to the ground. For an instant it blazed higher, until the flames were snuffed out by a squall of blank permits. Ever curious, Mudge darted forward and snatched one from the pile.

“It says we're suspected o' attemptin' to establish a restaurant without applyin' for a license.” He threw Jon-Tom a warning look. “Maybe 'tis time to call a bit o' a halt to the music-mongerin', mate.”

“I've already stopped.” Jon-Tom found himself retreating toward the pool as the first hundred blank forms crept toward his feet. They could no longer see the owl, but they could sure hear him. His ominous bureaucratic drone continued to echo from the canyon walls.

Racing forward, Mudge snatched up the rest of their gear and threw it at Jon-Tom, who caught it reflexively. Then the otter was tugging on his friend's arm.

“Come on, mate!”

“W-what?” Jon-Tom mumbled. His eyes were beginning to glaze over as well.

So Mudge bit him.

“
Ow!
” Jon-Tom responded with dazed anger, which the otter ignored. “What'd you do that for?”

“It was gettin' to you to. Bleedin' insidious, it is.” He was half leading, half dragging his friend along the beach toward the far end of the pool. Bemused but glad to be on their way again, the orphaned cloud of music preceded them. “Fortunately, I ain't smart enough to be susceptible.”

With the nimble otter leading the way and selecting the easiest path, they scrambled out of the ravine. Jon-Tom boosted his short-legged friend over the long drops, while Mudge ascended narrow chimneys inaccessible to Jon-Tom, tossing down their rope to help the human up to the next ledge. With fear and apprehension motivating them, they soon found themselves standing on level ground above the canyon.

Looking back, they could see that it continued to fill up with a heaving sea of foamlike forms and informative pamphlets. The paper was already lapping at the rim of the ravine and clutching at the roots of terrified trees. From somewhere far below, the submerged owl continued to call forth additional flurries.

Of the bandits who had threatened them there was neither sight nor sound. They had vanished in a quicksand of newsprint and twenty-pound rag bond.

Moments later Jon-Tom thought he could hear the owl conclude, its voice terrifying in its ordinariness.

“And that comprises the requirements for today. Tomorrow, of course, is another day.” It chuckled meaningfully, humorlessly. “Another day, another form.”

Mudge strained to see down into the canyon. “Crikey, mate, sometimes you don't fool around.”

“I didn't mean for it to go this far. I just wanted to, well, dissuade them.”

The otter was shaking his head. “Wot a bleedin' 'orrible way to go, guv. 'Orrible. Formed to death. Meself, I'd far rather be cleanly run through.” Shouldering his pack, he started after the drifting modality, which was once again urgently beckoning them southward.

Jon-Tom gazed a final moment at the canyon, stuffed to the rim with blank forms, before turning to follow. Though he had long since ceased singing, the image of that belching briefcase lingered in his mind, and he wanted to be completely sure it wasn't following before resuming their journey.

Chapter 5

DAYS PASSED WITHOUT
any trouble, though any flash of white caused both of them to glance nervously back the way they'd come. They remained alert, knowing that where one group of bandits was operating, there might well be others.

Making their way through the rugged terrain toughened old muscles, renewed long unused reactions. While they could not slough away the years, the constant exercise restored the spring to Mudge's step and caused the ring around Jon-Tom's middle to evaporate. Man and otter found themselves striding along a little easier, a little straighter

When they eventually came up against the Barrier, they were far better prepared to deal with it than they would have been on the morning they'd left the Bellwoods.

For several days the hills had begun to flatten out, as though the air had been exhausted from an artificially inflated earth. Deciduous forest had given way to dense stands of cypress and yarra, teak and mahogany. Tanadria trees thickly wrapped in the frayed banners of doleful Socrus vines witnessed their passage in silence, like lost souls mummified in indigo. Webs spun by the lesser relatives of the Plated Folk linked branches together with gummy butt-spit.

A cloying dampness clung to everything. Even the ground had a spongy feel. Impassable bogs appeared with greater and greater frequency, forcing the travelers to pick their way carefully through the widening swamp as the guiding chords beckoned them impatiently onward.

Fortunately, there was one strip of reasonably dry, solid land that coiled more or less southward. Had it not been for that fortuitous pathway their progress would have slowed to a crawl. It was even conceivable they would have been forced to turn back. To encounter a bona fide gate in such surroundings was something of a shock.

Not that it was much of a gate. A single large, peeled pole lay balanced on two posts, blocking the trail. The left post boasted a crude pivot and counterweight, whereby a gatekeeper could raise the barrier to pass travelers beneath. Behind the pivot stood a pair of huts connected by an enclosed walkway. They had wooden walls and thatched roofs.

As man and otter considered the gate, a decidedly overweight ratal clad in light leather armor and carrying a two-pronged spear emerged from the larger of the two huts. A three-foot-tall shrew in baggy clothes scurried along in his wake. He wore a mean expression, which Jon-Tom was graciously prepared to credit to a natural shrewish squint over which its owner had no control. A small brown cap bobbed on his slightly pointed head.

“Halt where you stand!” Stopping behind the pivot post, the ratal jammed the butt of his spear into the ground and raised a heavy paw. Jon-Tom and Mudge obliged.

“Wot 'ave we 'ere, now?” The otter stared evenly at the gatekeepers.

“This be the Beconian Road Toll Gate, traveler! Those desirous of passing this way are assessed one gold piece per person.” With a sweeping gesture the ratal indicated the surrounding inhospitable swamp. “As you can see and must by now know, there is no other suitable path.”

Hands on his sides, Mudge took a step forward. “That's an outrageous fee, an' I ought to know, 'avin' overcharged plenty o' suck—travelers in my time.” Even as he was replying, his sharp eyes were studying the twin huts, the nearby trees, the surrounding bogs. As near as he could tell, no army of associate gatekeepers lay waiting in ambush to add substance to the ratal's demand. The treetops were likewise devoid of possible assailants.

Which meant there really was only the ratal and shrew and their simple gate.

“On whose authority do you demand this payment?” Jon-Tom was likewise scrutinizing their immediate surroundings.

The ratal blinked, as though the answer were self-evident. “Why, on our own authority. We caused this gate to be built and we maintain it, as we do this portion of road.”

“But it's a gate to nowhere,” Jon-Tom pointed out, “across a road that exists only in name.” The compacted cloud of music hovering near his shoulder drew the shrew's attention. Its sensitive ears twitched forward, listening. “Why should we pay you anything?”