Read Online Chorus Skating by Alan Dean Foster - Free Book Online Page B

general ambiance.”
    Jon-Tom turned to regard his friend. “Talea doesn’t nag.”
    The otter made a sound halfway between a snort and a squeak. “This is ol’ Mudge you’re talkin’ to ’ere, mate. Females, they metamorphose, they do. Only ’tis all backwards reversed. Matin’ changes their body chemistry. See, they start out as butterflies, but after they’ve been cocooned for a while, they pop back out as caterpillars, all predictability and bristles.”
    â€œNot Talea.” The spellsinger rolled his head back to gaze anew at the sky. “And while I’m not qualified to comment on otterish pairings, I’d say you’re pretty lucky to have Weegee. In fact, if it wasn’t for her, I’d say you’d probably be dead.”
    â€œGet away with you, guv.” Mudge whistled softly. “Weegee, she’s okay. Wot you’re forgettin’ is that we otters do everythin’ at twice your speed an’ with twice as much energy. That includes naggin’.”
    â€œAt least these days you don’t have the twins underfoot.”
    When no reply was forthcoming, Jon-Tom repeated what he thought was a noteworthy observation, then turned to his right… and froze.
    Looking like a coiled brown snake, Mudge was half sitting up, his attention fixed on something farther up the ravine than their supper. Having spent enough time in the otter’s company to trust his instincts, Jon-Tom silently swung around and did his best to act as if nothing were amiss.
    â€œWhat is it?” he whispered with apparent indifference.
    â€œMovement in the bushes.” Casually, the otter rose and dusted himself off, shaking out his short tail as he ambled with disarming ease in the direction of the cook fire. Jon-Tom moved to follow, forcing himself to dress slowly. The music hovered nearby, humming to itself.
    Mudge made a show of turning the fish as Jon-Tom bent to watch.
    â€œSome local predator?” the spellsinger inquired of his companion.
    â€œI don’t think so.” The otter didn’t look up. “There’s at least four or five of ’em, and their movements are too erratic.”
    â€œOkay.” Jon-Tom hefted the duar and fingered a tune. “Think I’ll have time enough to use this?”
    â€œDepends.” Mudge moved around to the other side of the fire, which not incidentally placed him within grabbing distance of his bow and arrows.
    â€œOn what?”
    â€œOn whether or not they decide just to rush us or to ask questions first.”
    â€œThey might just be wary, but friendly.” Jon-Tom made sure his sword was close at hand.
    â€œFriendly types don’t sneak this long. They step out in the open where you can see ’em and ask if they can share your muffins. This lot’s ’ungry, all right, but I ’ave a feelin’ it ain’t for fish.”
    Almost before he could finish, the stalkers burst from concealment, brandishing an astonishing variety of weapons and emitting bloodcurdling howls from a medley of throats. With an eye toward keeping the pool behind them and the fire between themselves and their attackers, Mudge sprang to Jon-Tom’s side.
    Seeing that surprise was lost, the attackers paused to size up their prey. A raccoon armed with a short saber in one hand and a pommeled knife in the other stood beside a large ax-carrying red squirrel with a torn, ragged tail. Looming over both of them was a grizzled javelina whose coat had turned almost completely gray. One broken tusk sported a silver crown. He clutched a long spear.
    Flanking him were a nunchuck-wielding numbat, a capuchin, an elderly mandrill, and an ocelot whose muzzle was as gray as the javelina’s coat. The cat gripped a beautifully engraved double-handed sword wholly out of keeping with the ragged character of the band. Instead of holding the heavy weapon over his head, he was dragging it along the