also, to Jon-Tom’s dismay, tied a thick cord around the
neck of the duar.
“There,” he said, apparently satisfied, and handed over
the instrument. Jon-Tom’s fingers closed gratefully over
the familiar wooden surface, lightly stroked the double set
of strings.
The porcupine returned to his chair, keeping a firm grip
on his end of the cord. “Now if you try anything funny I
don’t even have to run over to you. All I have to do is pull
this rope.” He gave the cord an experimental yank, and
Jon-Tom had to fight to hold onto the duar.
“I need a little slack,” he pleaded, “or I won’t be able
to play at all.”
“All right.” The jailer relaxed his grip slightly. “But if I
think you are trying to trick me I will pull it right out of
your hands and smash it against the floor.”
“Don’t worry. I wouldn’t try anything like that. Would
I, Mudge?”
“Oh, no, sor. Not after you’ve all but given this
gentlebeing your word.” The otter assumed an air of mock
unconcern as he settled down on the floor to listen. “Play
us a lullaby, Jon-Tom. Somethin’ soothin’ and relaxin’ to
‘eip us poor ones forget the troubles we face and the
problems o’ the world.”
“Yes, play something like that,” asked the porcupine.
Jon-Tom struggled with himself. Best to first play a
couple of innocuous ditties to lull this sod into a false
SO
Alan Dean Foster
sense of security. The trouble was, being mostly into
heavy metal, he knew about as many gentle tunes as he did
operatic arias. Somehow something by Ozzy Osbourne or
Ted Nugent didn’t seem right, nor did anything by KISS.