It happened one very fine morning that Icelus was depressed. As anyone
acquainted with him will know, when Icelus is depressed there is no discussing
anything else. He is a great artist of misery. He works despair with the skill
of a tailor, casts it about his shoulders like a warm fur cloak and settles in
for a long, long winter.

Now, I, the great Mushka, am in favour of the practice of individual talents.
Without exercise, without regular use, talents wither away and disappear; and
thus I would not have it suspected that I am inclined to criticise the
magnificent Icelus for this display of his greatest of all gifts. However, it
must be said that when Icelus is depressed, he is not very much fun to spend any
time with.

So Dantes and I set forth to cheer him up. Anyone acquainted with Icelus will
likewise know, that he loves nothing more than flowers. The colours brighten him
up as nothing else can. But a mere rose, or a lily, or a tulip, or anything
else, is quite commonplace; these we have given to him a hundred times. Where
could we find something unusual? Naturally we thought immediately of Maylea.

'O beauteous, magnificent and marvellous Maylea, grant us an audience,' said we
in unison, standing before Her great shrine (and indeed I do think we did rather
well with the alliteration: surely she must be pleased with such an address). We
waited. Possibly She was terribly busy painting and did not hear us, for there
was no reply.

Perhaps a fainter-hearted soul would have abandoned this noble mission and
returned empty-handed, but not us! No! We must have a gift for Icelus, nothing
else would do; so we glanced about ourselves, and discovered a wondrous
alternative. There was a great, hulking bird-creature of simply monstrous
proportions, just standing about. It was quite as if he was waiting to
accommodate us. He was fat and heavy and clumsy, but his tail was splendid:
long, lustrous plumes all covered in colours! Shining in the sunlight like
metals and gems! And with great eyes in the centre as if the feathers were
staring at us. Irresistible! Icelus would be delighted. We grabbed a feather and
pulled.

It squawked! It squealed and screamed and dashed about; really it was quite
absurd how it carried on. I was ashamed of it, and remonstrated with it severely
as we clung to its plumage, carried along by its antics in a most improper
manner. But as determined as we were, we could not detach those feathers. I
suspect it of having welded them into place.

Some time was necessary to calm the creature down, and some skillful effort on
the part of Dantes (though indeed he is blessed with such a natural charm of
manner that it is no effort with him to captivate any creature). At length it
ceased its attempts to swallow us and was moved to listen to our explanation.

'Just a single feather, dear bird, and we will be delighted to depart,' said
Dantes smoothly, twirling his monocle.

'NOT my precious plumage!' shrieked the bird-thing. I could not conceal a wince
at the volume.

'But it is for a noble cause!' said I, and explained, with the utmost
rationality, our poor Icelus's state of mind.

'Precious plumage!' shrieked the creature again. 'Precious plumage! I grew these
myself! It was very hard work and I was very tired afterwards, and I shall not
give any away.'

'Perhaps we may give you something in return for it,' suggested Dantes, with
admirable presence of mind. 'We have seeds, of the finest quality.
Strength-building, beauty-enhancing seeds, of the most exquisite flavour! I can
offer you five for one of those feathers. Special deal. Today only.'

'MY beauty, enhanced!' retorted the bird-thing. 'I have no need of such
enhancements; it would be impossible for me to be any more beautiful.' And the
odious creature preened its admittedly marvellous feathers, stood a little
straighter, and glared down its arrogant beak at Dantes and me.

'You had better eat them all yourselves,' it continued. 'You are in much greater
need of it. Especially that black one.' It stared at me. ME! The affront!

Dantes tore off his monocle and stood wielding it as if he would throw it at the
nasty creature. 'I demand satisfaction for that insult!' he cried, and hurled
the monocle at the bird-thing's feet. 'I challenge you to a duel!'

The thing sniffed, and clacked its beak. 'I could eat you both in one bite,' it
said. Most offensive, even if it was perfectly true.

'There shall be no violence,' said Dantes quickly. 'I challenge you to a contest
of singing! Your charming voice against the dulcet tones of the lovely Mushka!'

The bird-thing ruffled its wings and nodded. 'Very well,' it said, 'but I warn
you: my voice is, naturally, as beautiful as my form.'

'Yes, yes,' said Dantes. 'But the rules! We shall have a panel of judges, and
there will be prizes.'

'What prizes?'

Dantes looked sly. 'If we win... a feather. If you win, the seeds.'

'Bah!' said the thing, with the greatest disgust, but still it agreed. It named
for us a day and a time not very far distant, and went away.

'Dantes!' I hissed. 'What are you doing?'

'Do not worry, my Mushka,' he said to me, taking my paw in the gentlest manner.
'It will be the simplest thing in the world to win this contest.'

'I cannot sing.'

'My Mushka! Such modesty! Surely you must see that you cannot possibly be as bad
as this creature.'

Alas, I was obliged to prove it. I sang for him the jaunty and well-known air
'The Purple Cow in the Butter Pasture on a Warm Summer's Day'. When I had
finished he stood silent for a time, aghast.

'Well, my Mushka,' he said gravely, 'it is true that we cannot all excel in
every area of life; and as you are so very talented, beauteous and delectable in
every other respect I ought to have guessed that, in this, you may have a
superior.' This soothed my wounded feelings, as intended - did I not mention the
extreme charm of the noble Dantes? But nonetheless we were in possession of a
problem.

'Fear not, Mush-Mush,' he said. 'I have a plan!'

----------------------------------------------------------------------

The day of the contest arrived. The prizes lay on open cushions atop the judges'
bench, the plume displayed on silver silk and the seeds scattered over golden
velvet. The judges were assembled at the correct hour, and appropriately
supplied with refreshments. There was a platter of dead shrews for Volucer,
split open and arranged in the most refined manner; there was a pair of fat
rabbits for Hinagar, with their skins removed and presented separately with
extra blood-sauce; and a selection of the finest oat grains and soft hay was
provided in a velvet bag for Aestra. When they had eaten, the judges took their
seats. There was a bustle as the spectators settled and finished their
conversations, and in the midst of this the bird stepped onto the stage and
announced itself.

'What did it say its name was?' whispered Dantes to me.

'I did not hear,' I replied. 'Pea bird, I think. Pea head. Pea cake. Pea-cake! I
am certain that it was Pea-cake.'

We had invited a band of bards to play for the contest, and now they began their
music. There was a viola, a lute, a lyre and a harp. They were very good.

Pea-cake opened its beak, stretched its neck, and began to sing. It began with a
dulcet honk, accompanied by a rhythmic clatter of its beak. It raised its voice
and favoured us with a sequence of honks, gaining in volume and splendour. And
then its voice soared to a keening scream, the likes of which no breathless
audience has encountered before. For ten minutes it maintained these execrable
tones, keening and howling with the pride and panache of a superior performer.

At last, the song was over. The indignant roar of the spectators finally died
down, and the judges removed their paws or wings from their ears. Pea-bird bowed
and fluttered down from the stage, taking its place in the front row with a smug
sideways glance at me. I smiled.

The stage was mine. I took my place, and the eyes of every spectator fastened
upon me. I was wearing a new stole, an exquisite creation of embroidered velvet,
and a new necklace of blown glass hung around my neck. I knew I looked
absolutely my best.

The bards struck up another tune. Pea-cake had opted for a tragic, mournful air,
heavy on the violas. I had chosen a crowd-pleaser. As the drums took up the beat
of 'My Bonny Lich-Lady from Angkrag' there was a spontaneous flutter of approval
from the audience. I began the song.

'My lady, my beauty, my bonny lich-girl,
How luscious your dead, rotten skin;
Your flesh is a-peeling, your insides a-rotting,
Your stench sets my head in a spin!
Your ungraceful gait makes my heart all a-flutter,
A glimpse of your bones is divine;
Your smile is a study in decomposition,
If only I could make you mine!'

The song soared, floating in the air with the grace of a butterfly. I blushed at
the strength of the crowd's approval. The words of the second and third verses
were almost lost beneath the tumult of applause. The song ended too quickly, and
there were calls of encore from the audience. I was tempted to begin another;
but no! That would be impossible. I made my bows, and left the stage.

The judges now stood, and Hinagar stepped forward.

'I think the crowd has decided!' he announced in his growling tones. The silver
cushion was presented to me, and I accepted the plume with exceptional
graciousness.

'How extraordinary for such vocal talents to lie hidden, unknown to the world!'
continued Hinagar. 'Though your voice does put me in mind of another I heard
once; did you perhaps ever train with the great Trialante?'

I gulped. 'Y-yes,' I said, with perfect calm.

Dantes stepped in. 'She was the student of Trialante for many years,' he said
smoothly. 'Her star pupil! You will imagine her excellence in class.'

The eye of Hinagar fixed upon the necklace around my neck. I realised it was
glowing, and more embarrassingly, beginning to sing.

'That trinket,' he said. 'Is that...? Surely not!'

'Alas, we must depart, for we are expected elsewhere with great impatience,'
interposed Dantes, gesturing at me behind his back. I pulled the stole over the
necklace, shaking it to make it stop singing. There was a muffled sound of
protest and the voice stopped.

'Thank you, dear friends, for your attendance and assistance! It has been the
greatest of pleasures.' He bowed, ducking the displeasure of Pea-bird whose
honking voice was loudly raised against us. 'The rat!' it said. 'It did not
sing! It does not sing! The Trialante sings!'

I clutched the plume tightly in both paws as we darted away. We were soon
underground, well beyond the reach of the nasty Pea-cake. The necklace was
singing again, quite loudly, and at last Dantes stopped.

'Give me the bauble, Mushka,' he said. I handed it over, and he threw it on the
floor. It smashed.

'You could have chosen a more dignified song,' said the Voice of Trialante,
grouchily. It flared for a moment and then diminished. 'You both owe me.' It
disappeared.

The feather had become a little dusty in our hasty flight. I smoothed it with my
paws, admiring its colours.

'Well, and so we were not precisely honest,' I reflected. 'But, however, it was
in the noblest of causes, and we did leave the other prize for the Pea-head.'

Dantes began to juggle five fat seeds in his paws. 'Not entirely true, my
Mushka. But, however, I did say today only.'