reward from a grateful Clothahump. Mudge had endured
too much already to throw that promise away now.
“But what else can we do?” Jalwar moaned. “None of
us is a wizard or sorcerer. We cannot cure his odd
condition, because it is the result of his own spellsinging.”
“Maybe it’ll cure itself.” Mudge tried to sound optimis-
tic. He watched sadly as Jon-Tom rolled over on the center
cabin and tried to puke again. “I feel sorry for ‘im. ‘Tis
clear ‘e ain’t used to liquorish effects.” As if to reinforce
the otter’s observation, Jon-Tom rolled over again and fell
off the cabin, nearly knocking himself out on the deck.
Lifting himself to a sitting position, he burst out laughing.
He was the only one on the boat who found the situation
amusing.
Mudge shook his head. “Bleedin’ pitiful.”
“Yes, it is sad,” Jalwar agreed.
96
Alan Dean Foster
“Cor, but not the way you think it is, mate. ‘Ere ‘e is,
sufferin’ from one o’ the finest binges I’ve ever seen
anybody on, and ‘e ain’t even had the pleasure o’ drinkin’
the booze. Truly pitiful.” A glance downward showed
sand looming near.
“Couple o’ degrees to starboard, luv!” he called stemward.
“Ah heah y’all.” Roseroar adjusted the boat’s heading.
The sandy bottom fell away once again.
“It’ll wear off,” the otter mumbled. “It ‘as to. Ain’t
nobody can stay drunk this long no matter ‘ow strong a
spell’s been laid on ‘is belly. I wonder when ‘e did it?”
“The same tune he did everything else,” Jalwar explained.
“Don’t you remember the song?”
“You mean that part about it bein’ ‘the worst trip I’ve