toward the otter. “Did you say something, dung-eater?”
“Wot, me? Just clearin’ me throat… sir. Dried out it
were by a hot fight.”
” ‘Tis going to get hotter for you, thinks I.” The big cat
returned his attention to Jon-Tom, who stood bleeding
silently. “Any complaints?”
Jon-Tom lowered his gaze from the leopard’s face,
feeling the blood trickling down his face and wondering if
the scarring would be permanent.
“No, sir. No complaints, sir.”
The leopard favored him with a thin smile. “That’s
better.”
‘ ‘Are you the captain of this ship… sir?”
The leopard threw back his head and roared. “I am
Sasheem, first mate.” He looked to his right, stepped
aside. “Here comes the captain now.”
Jon-Tom didn’t know what to expect. Another bear,
perhaps, or some other impressive figure. He forgot that
captains are fashioned of brain as well as brawn, mind as
much as muscle. The sight of the captain surprised but did
not shock him. It seemed somehow perversely traditional.
Captain Corroboc was a parrot. Bright green, with
patches of blue and red. He stood about four feet tall. The
missing right leg had been replaced with one of wood.
Metal springs enabled it to bend at the knee. A leather
patch covered the one empty eye socket.
As was the fashion among the feathered citizens of this
world, Corroboc wore a kilt. It was unpatterned and blood
red, a perfect match to his crimson vest. The absence of a
design showed that he had abandoned his clanship. Unlike
many of the other fliers Jon-Tom had encountered, he wore
no hat or cap. A narrow bandolier crossed the feathered