But the ferret was scrambling to his feet, leaving a
bleeding Mudge lying on the floor. Displaying incredible
agility, the sorcerer dodged under Roseroar’s wild rush and
started climbing up the nearest shelf. Boxes and cartons
came flying down at the tigress, who batted the missiles
aside impatiently as she tried to locate her quarry. Then
she was climbing after him, slowly but relentlessly.
Jon-Tom was bending over Mudge, whose paws were
clasped over the knife wound. The otter’s eyes were
half-closed as he stared up at his companion.
“This is it, guv’nor. I’m on me way out. I’m dyin’. I
knew it would come someday, but 1 never thought it’d be
like this, wot? Not in some bloody store ‘alfway across the
276
Alan Dean Foster
world. I was meant to die in bed, I was.” The limpid
brown eyes were full of sadness and regret. “We ‘ad some
good times, though. A few laughs ‘ere, narrow escape
there. Cor, ’twere much to be sung of.” The eyes closed,
reopened weakly.
“Sorry it ‘ad to end like this, mate. If you ‘ave a song
left in you to sing you might sing one for old Mudge. Sing
me a song o’ gold, spellsinger. If I can’t die in bed maybe
I can die under a pile o’ gold. Bury me in the damn stuff
and I’ll slip away ‘appily.”
Jon-Tom knelt alongside the limp otter, holding his head
up with one hand. “Mudge,” he said quietly, “that knife
didn’t go in more than half an inch, and you’re not
bleeding that bad. If you want to get gold out of me you’re
going to have to do better than that.”
The otter fixed him with pleading eyes. “Gold? Why, I