and hide behind a rock with him.” He was mad at the
otter. Hadn’t he, Jon-Tom, helped to bring about the great
victory at the Jo-Troom Gate? Purely by accident of
course, but still…
“No sun,” said the tigress, offended. “If n y’all don’t
mind, I’ll stand right heah.”
“Good for you.” Jon-Tom unlimbered his duar, turned
away to confront the open sea, where soon he hoped to see
a proper ship riding empty at anchor. Turning also kept
Roseroar from seeing how nervous he was.
Once before on a far-distant river he’d tried to bring
forth a boat to carry himself and his companions. Instead,
he’d ended up with Falameezar, the Marxist dragon. That
misplaced conjuration had produced unexpectedly benign
results, but there was no guarantee he’d be as fortunate if he
fouled up a second time.
It was too late to back down now. He’d already made his
boast. He felt Roseroar’s gaze on the back of his neck. If
he backed down now he’d prove himself an incompetent to
Mudge and a coward to the tigress. He had to try.
He considered several songs and discarded them all as
unsuitable. He was beginning to grow frantic when a song
so obvious, so simple, offered what seemed like an obvi-
ous way out,
His fingers tested the duar’s strings and he began to
sing.
Flecks of light sprang to instant life around him. It was
as though the sand underfoot had come to glowing life.
The lights were Gneechees, those minute ultrafast specks
of existence that were drawn irresistibly to magic in
motion. They coalesced into a bright, dancing cloud around