where none’s to be seen.”
“I pray it is so,” whispered Jalwar, “or we are well and
truly doomed.”
” ‘Alf a chance,” Mudge muttered. “That’s all *e needs
is ‘alf a chance.”
“They may not give it to him,” commented Roseroar.
While his companions slept the sleep of the exhausted
that night, Jon-Tom planned and schemed. Corroboc was
going to let him sing, out of curiosity if naught else. Songs
would have to be chosen carefully, with an eye toward
suppressing any suspicions the captain might have. Jon-
Tom had no doubt that the homicidal parrot would watch
him carefully.
His recital should be as bland and homogenous as
possible. Somehow he would have to find an effective tune
that would have the hoped-for results while sounding
perfectly innocent. The lyrics would have to be powerful
but nonthreatening.
Only when he’d arranged a program in his mind did he
allow himself to fall into a troubled, uneasy sleep.
The first mate had them scrubbing the base of the
mainmast the next morning. Corroboc strolled past without
looking at the work, and Jon-Tom turned slowly toward
him, keeping his tone deferential.
“Your pardon, Captain.”
The parrot turned, wingtips resting on slim bird hips.
“Don’t waste my time, boy. You’ve plenty to do.”
“I know that, Captain sir, but it’s very much the wrong
kind of work. I miss my chosen avocation, which is that of
minstrel. My knowledge of songs of far lands is unsur-
passed.”
“Be that so, boy?”
Jon-Tom nodded vigorously. “I know wondrous chords
and verse of great beauty, can bring forth the most mellifluous