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.
As the two of them quarreled, Couvier Coulb led the rest of his guests downstairs. “Come, my friend. Amalm, I am sure our guests must be hungry.” He put an affectionate arm and his prehensile tail around Jon-Tom’s waist, which was as high as he could comfortably reach. “And I know this young man must be thirsty. I am going to fix your duar, Jon-Tom. Have no fear of that. If it is at all possible I will do it.” He winked. “I may even do it if it is impossible. But first we must rest. You are tired from battling demons and I from a long illness. You must talk of your travels in distant lands and of the world you come from, and I would know more of this Clothahump who knew to send you to me.”
“That’s easy.” Mudge and Weegee had rejoined them, Mudge still rubbing his backside. “ ‘E’s a senile old faker with a ‘ead as ‘ard as ‘is shell.”
By nightfall Coulb had recovered much of his strength and led his guests into his workshop. The house was already perking up, having set aside its month-long funeral dirge in favor of some sprightly, cheerful tunes that would have done well on Broadway. It had a rejuvenating effect on Coulb and Jon-Tom. Mudge thought it spooky.
The kinkajou carefully laid out the shattered components of the duar on his workbench, a glistening long table made of pure white hardwood. When the last piece had been set down he turned the carrying sack inside out to check for dust and splinters. These were collected, placed in ajar, and added to the display. As he donned a pair of extra-thick work glasses Jon-Tom took a moment to examine the workshop.
Musical instruments in different stages of repair lay on other benches or hung from the walls. The air was thick with the rich smells of oil and varnish. Some of the tools meticulously arranged in boxes next to the workbench looked fine enough to do double duty in a surgery.
Coulb was muttering aloud. “Align these here, replace some wood there; that seam can be fixed, yes.” He looked up, pushed the work glasses back on his forehead. “I can repair it—I think.”
“You think?”
The kinkajou rubbed at his eyes. “As I said before, this instrument is unique. The most difficult part will be setting the strings. It is hard to achieve perfect pitch in two dimensions at once.” He gestured toward the bench. “All the strings are there?” Jon-Tom nodded. “Good. I’ve never seen strings like these and I’d hate to have to try to replace them. Fortunately they are metal. But I will need help setting them properly.”
Jon-Tom looked around the shop. “An apprentice?” Coulb just smiled.
Oil lamps, each in the shape of a different instrument, lined the walls. It was pitch dark outside. They were full of Amalm’s good cooking. Jon-Tom sensed he was in the presence of another master magician. What else could you call someone who took wood and glue and gut and created from such disparate elements the essence of music?
“Not an apprentice.” The kihkajou was walking to another table. “Gneechees. A spellsinger should know gneechees.”
“That I do, but I’ve never seen anyone except Clothahump and myself call them up.”
“Not only must we call them up, young man, we must isolate those we need. In order to be able to do this I collaborated some years ago with Acrody, a master manufacturer of medical devices. Working together we built this.”
Jon-Tom studied the contraption intently. It consisted of a series of transparent tubes, each stacked inside the other. Their sides were perforated by minute holes. The largest tube, which contained all the others, was nearly a foot in diameter, while the innermost was as narrow as a straw. This emerged from the middle of the stack and continued up and out until it entered a glass plate that was perhaps a quarter inch deep and some two feet wide by three long. It resembled a solar collector without the silicon cells. Coulb assured him it was covered with small holes but Jon-Tom could perceive them only as a roughness on the flat surface.
From the underside of the plate hung thin strips of metal, wood, glass, plastic—every imaginable substance. Coulb leaned over and blew on the plate. As the air passed through the glass the streamers began to vibrate, producing an infinity of musical tones.
Keys ran in a circle around the base of the big glass tube. They did not appear to be connected to anything but Jon-Tom knew better. Coulb hadn’t placed them there for decoration.
“What is it?” Weegee finally asked.
“A gneechee sorter.” Coulb looked proud. “Not an easy thing to build, I can tell you. I use it to isolate those gneechees who are musically inclined from those with other ethereal interests. It will help us to tune your duar, young man. If I can put it back together again. Which I cannot do if I stand here nattering away with you. Go on now, out, shoo, leave me to my work. Amalm will attend to your needs. It is late and you need your sleep while I am just waking up. I will see you again tomorrow night.”
They filed out, Jon-Tom’s gaze lingering long on the fragments of his duar. He felt as though he was abandoning his only child to another’s care. Better care than you gave it. he reminded himself.
There was a large guest house out back. Amalm found beds for all of them and bid them a good night. They fell asleep instantly, lulled by the music of the house and the waterfall nearby which combined to sing them a liquid lullaby.
XVI
They spent several days as Coulb’s guests, enjoying Amalm’s cooking and exploring the village, regaining the strength they’d expended during the arduous journey to Strelakat Mews. Many times Jon-Tom was tempted to look in on Couvier Coulb. He did not, mindful of Amalm’s admonition that the master worked best when he was not disturbed.
There came a day when Coulb interrupted their breakfast. He was tired from working through the night but quietly exultant. The right lens of his work glasses was almost obscured by varnish and he held a brush in his right paw as he looked straight at Jon-Tom and smiled.
“It’s done. Come and see.”
Though he wasn’t finished eating, Jon-Tom pushed back his chair and moved to follow Coulb. So did Cautious. Weegee dragged a disgruntled Mudge away from the food.