got to be patient. They don’t know that I’m a spellsinger.
If I can just get my hands on my duar, get one chance to
play and sing, we’ll have a chance.”
“A chance at wot, mate?” Mudge slumped dispiritedly
in a comer. “For you to conjure up some poor dancin’ girl
to take Roseroar’s place? To bury this slimy tub in
flowers?”
“I’ll do something,” Jon-Tom told him angrily. “You
see if I don’t.”
“I will that, guv.” The otter rolled over, ignoring the
fact that the floor of their cage was composed of rank straw
stained dark by the urine of previous captives.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m goin’ to ‘ave a sleep, mate.”
“How can you sleep now?”
“Because I’m tired, mate.” The otter glanced up at
him. “I am tired of fightin1, tired with fear, and most of
all I’m tired o’ listenin’ to wot a wonderful spellsinger you
are. When you’re ready to magic us out o’ this ‘ole and
back to someplace civilized, wake me. If not, maybe I’ll
be lucky and not wake up meself.”
“One should never ride the wave of pessimism,” Jalwar
chided him.
“Close your cake ‘ole, you useless old fart. You don’t
know wot the ‘ell you’re talkin’ about.” Hurt, the old
ferret lapsed into silence.
Jon-Tom had moved to the barrier and held a cell bar in
each hand. They were fixed deep into the wood of the
ship. Small scavenger lizards and dauntingly big bugs
skittered about in the dark sections of the hold while others
could be heard using the rafters for pathways.
Then he turned to walk over to Roseroar and put a
comforting hand on her head, stroking her between the