“That’s not music,” said Dormas.
“Oh, yes, it is. Tis exactly the sort of music this monstrosity that’s surroundin’ us and tryin’ to choke us off will appreciate.”
“So he thinks he can sing,” said the first voice as the contracting cage turned its attention away from Jon-Tom.
“Yes,” said the second. “He doesn’t realize that all he is doing is sitting in a sewer and getting ready to contribute to it.”
“Is that a fact?” yelled the otter. “Well, ‘ave a care an’ listen to this, you invisible, impolite, perturbed arse’ole!”
The otter began to sing. The accompaniment the duar provided was nothing less than awful, but what mattered was not the ragged series of notes but rather the lyrics Mudge invented. For while Jon-Tom might be the spellsinger and Clothahump the wizard, when it came to concocting insults, Mudge had no equal in this world or in any other.
A kind of wave went through the atmosphere of the camp. A shudder, as though they had just passed through a cloud.
The oppression lifted from Jon-Tom, enabling him to sit up straight. The pain inside his skull began to fade.
The voices fought back furiously, though for the first time, Jon-Tom thought they sounded just the slightest bit hesitant.
“A foul mouth and getting fouler.”
“The air around him is as he does.”
“Is that the best you can do?” Mudge howled on, enjoying himself, letting his anger spill out of him. “An” you call yourselves insults? You wouldn’t know shit if you were standin’ in it!”
Jon-Tom found he could stand. He was wincing repeatedly, not from the insulting blows that had been rained on him previously but from the screeching, wailing sounds the abused duar was producing. Mudge might have fooled with a lyre or some other stringed instrument before, but the complexity of the duar was clearly beyond him. And yet the noise he was making, though bearing the same resemblance to music that a diamond does to a cowflop, seemed to be aiding instead of hindering his offensive efforts.
“Your master should ‘ave great fortune,” the otter sang. “ ‘E should become rich an’ famous an’ attractive, with all the world bowin’ before ‘im. An’ ‘e should learn at the same time that ‘e ‘as some ‘orrible uncurable disease.”
A blast of diseased wind rocked the camp, sending ashes flying from the fire. It was a last feeble attempt to whip them into submission, and it failed. Mudge was already beyond the original barrier, striding toward the trees as though stalking an unseen enemy. Which was exactly what he was doing.
“Go ahead, go ahead,” squeaked the voice, desperately attempting to regain the offensive, “tell us everything you know. It won’t take long.”
Mudge sang back at it. “I’ll tell you everythin’ we both know—it won’t take any longer!”
“If I had to listen to singing like yours much longer,” moaned the remaining voice, “I’d poison you.”
“If I ‘ad to listen to you much longer,” Mudge barked gleefully, “I’d take it!”
When the otter stopped strumming the duar, there was silence, save for the wind blowing through the trees. Nothing more, not a veiled comment, not a sound. The heavy, oppressive feeling that had crowded them into a smaller and smaller place was gone.
“Done already, you cowardly lot? You can dish it out, wot, but you can’t take it. I’m just gettin’ warmed up, I am.” He plucked at the duar. “You think you’ve ‘card insults? You ‘aven’t ‘card any insults. I’ve got an insult for every day I’ve been alive and a few brought forward from prenatal eaves-droppin’.”
“Mudge, it’s over, you did it. You broke the cage and drove it off.”
“Oh, right you are, lad.” He handed over the duar. “I wanted to make sure. I did well, didn’t I?”
Jon-Tom smiled down at his friend. “Mudge, it was positively inspiring.”
“Aye.” The otter drew himself up proudly. “Aye, it were, weren’t it? A day to remember.”
“And a lot of words to forget,” said Clothahump. “It is wholly characteristic of this expedition that we should require rescue by a thersitical water rat. It is one more example of the unpredictability of the enemy we seek. We must be on guard for everything, including that which we cannot imagine. Had I more time, I would have managed to defeat this most recent adversary by more conventional and congenial means.”
“Sure you would, Your Lordship,” said Mudge. Jon-Tom hastened to step between them.
“I’ve listened to enough insults for one morning. Let’s get our gear together and be on our way.”
As they were packing to depart Jon-Tom strolled over to confront Mudge curiously. “Tell me something, Mudge. If what you’d sung, and I use the word hesitantly, hadn’t done the trick, what else did you have in your repertoire? What’s the worst insult you could have thrown against the cage?”
“Why, that’s easy, mate.”
Jon-Tom bent low. The otter cupped a paw to his lips and whispered in the man’s ear. Jon-Tom listened intently, nodding from time to time, his expression twisting. Eventually the otter concluded his recitation and returned to his packing. As he did so there was a sudden rumble underfoot. Mudge jumped one way; Jon-Tom backpedaled and stumbled.
Fortunately the crevass, after splitting the earth between them for about a yard, ceased expanding. Man and otter crawled to the edge of the chasm and peered down into black depths that seemed to extend for miles. They could feel the heat rising from below, and the thick aroma of sulfur filled the air.
Mudge lifted his eyes to meet Jon-Tom’s stare. “Crikey, mate, I ‘ad no idea it were that insultin’.” Rising, he retreated a couple of steps and, while Jon-Tom held his breath, sprinted forward and leapt across the bottomless gap. Mudge turned to look back at the rift he’d opened in the earth’s crust.
“I don’t understand, mate. I’ve mounted me share o’ insults before and not one of ‘em ever ‘ad a result like this.”
“The lingering power of the duar’s music,” Clothahump explained. “It will fade. You did well, though if any unusual ability might have been expected of you, the one you demonstrated was appropriate and unsurprising.”
“Can’t even give me a compliment when ‘tis due, the old fart,” Mudge grumbled. “I save ‘is arse, save everyone’s, and that’s me reward. Well, ‘e’ll see. The next time trouble comes, you won’t find old Mudge leapin’ to the rescue. No, sir. Not by the thickness of a cat’s whisker you won’t.
“That’s just Clothahump’s way, Mudge.” Jon-Tom tried to calm his friend. “You ought to know that by now.”
“That’s true, lad. That’s ‘is way—selfish, contemptuous, an’ overbearin’. Me, I’m glad I’m no wizard if that’s the personality that goes with it.”
“Just don’t utter any absolutes. We’re not out of this yet, you know.”
“Is that supposed to be a revelation, mate? I’m never out of it so long as I’m forced to ‘ang around you and ‘Is Snotness. Well”—he took a deep breath—”we ‘andled ‘is forest fire and we ‘andled ‘is farkin’ insults. If that’s the worst this ‘ere madman can throw against us, we should ‘ave a simple enough time of it settin’ the perambulator free.”
“I hope you’re right, Mudge.” Jon-Tom turned his gaze toward the northern mountains. “But we still have to worry about the perambulator itself. Somehow I have the feeling that everything we’ve experienced so far is just a foretaste of what it can do.”
Sorbl had spotted a pass cutting through the first line of peaks, and they were climbing toward it. After weeks of marching through endless forest it was cheering to have a visible goal in sight. Having walked for more than a year, it was difficult to keep the excited Colin from sprinting out ahead of them.