neetha Napew - The Paths Of The Perambulator

Sorenset led them past the fancier accommodations toward the back where a number of less elaborate but still spotlessly clean stalls faced a small stream. Such stable space was usually occupied by free-lancers: those haulers and packers who preferred to work alone rather than in teams. Here hay was more in evidence in the feed delivery bays than oats or alfalfa.

Around a corner and down a pathway shaded by ancient wool wood trees, they found themselves facing a shuttered stall front and door. To the left of the double door was an oversize mailbox, a large round depository whose contents could be removed with equal ease by hands or lips. Above the box was a brass nameplate on which a single name was engraved in incongruously elegant script:

DORMAS.

Sorenset smiled at them before pushing the door-bell button. Something clanged inside, was followed by a deep yet unmistakably feminine voice. It sounded slightly irritated.

“Get lost! I ain’t in the mood.”

Mudge was nodding approvingly. “Ah, a lady after me own ‘eart.”

Sorenset looked embarrassed as he cleared his throat. “It’s me, Sorenset of the council, acting the part of guide.”

“I don’t care if it’s the Grand Randury of the Moshen Theatre Ensemble acting the part of the spasmed duck! I’m not interested in company.” A pause, then, “Oh—wait a minute. I do know you. You’re the one who told me about the southerners trekking north who needed someone to haul for them up onto the Plateau?”

Sorenset fought to retain his dignity as he replied. “I am. Of the city council. Could we come in, please?”

“Suit yourself. Door’s open.”

Sorenset pulled on the latch and swung the heavy wooden barrier aside, held it open while his charges filed through.

Wearing a beige blanket and standing before them was their volunteer. Jon-Tom’s eyebrows drew together as he frowned at the animal.

“You’re not a horse.”

Dormas immediately cocked a jaundiced eye at the fox. “Who’s this fountain of wit?”

“Oh, indeedy, my kind of lady,” said Mudge with a delighted chuckle as he crossed his legs and leaned back against the wall. Sorbl closed the door behind him.

“You’re a mule,” Jon-Tom added.

She turned her gaze from their guide back to him. “You don’t know much of anything, do you, human?” She went on to explain as if to an idiot. “For your information I am not a mule. I am a ninny.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“And about time too.” She looked back to Sorenset. “You told me I’d be traveling in the company of wizards and warriors, not idiot children.”

“Now look,” Jon-Tom began, “I don’t think—”

“A mule,” she explained, interrupting him, “is the offspring of a donkey and a horse, or more specifically, of a jackass and a mare. Whereas a hinny is the offspring of a stallion and a female donkey. Either of which is preferable to being the fruit of the union of a couple of hairless apes. The wonder of it is,” she added, looking him up and down, “is that so much could spring from so little effort.”

He made hurried placating gestures. “Hey, I’m sorry, I didn’t know. Quadrupedal biology isn’t one of my specialties.”

“Nor is diplomacy, apparently.”

“I said I was sorry. My name’s Jon-Tom. This is the great wizard Clothahump, his famulus Sorbl, and my friend and traveling companion, Mudge. We’re delighted that you’ve volunteered to help us.”

“Help you, hell.” She snorted once, glanced over at Clothahump. “It’s pretty clear that you’re the leader of this lot of mental defectives, hard-shell or not. The man’s too green, the owl too tipsy, and the water rat has shifty eyes. You’re acclaimed by default.”

“De fault of an unfair fate, I calls it,” murmured Mudge, low enough so that Clothahump couldn’t hear him.

“The fox told me I’d be paid in accordance with the danger involved. With winter threatening to bust open over our heads any day now, that’s danger enough.”

“I concur, and your recompense shall reflect that,” Clothahump told her.

She appeared somewhat mollified by this ready agreement. “Well, that’s better. Didn’t mean to appear contrary.”

“Nice to meet you,” said Sorbl, fluttering his wings. He’d found a proper perch on a crossbeam.”

“Me too,” added Jon-Tom. “I apologize for any offense I may have caused. I assure you it was unintentional. I still have a lot to learn about this world.”

“Urn. I’m Dormas. None of us can help what we are.”

“How’s tricks, good-looking? I’m Mudge.” The otter added a cheery whistle.

“Shifty eyes, but I like you, otter. You don’t walk two inches above the ground.” She shifted her attention back to the council fox. “Get lost, Sorenset. I’ve got dealings to quantify. And thanks for the business. You’ll get your cut later.”

“My cut?” The fox was already retreating toward the door. “Why, I don’t know what you’re talking about!” He bestowed a wan smile on the saviors of the city. “I really do have to run anyway. Good-bye and good luck.” He departed with unseemly haste.

“And now it’s time to settle on a few details,” Dormas said brightly.

“Details? I thought Sorenset had taken care of those,” Clothahump said.

“Naw. Just brought us together, he did. Come in back and let’s sit a spell.”

The back room was a revelation. There was a finely worked straw bed whose contents were obviously changed and scented daily, a gilded water trough, and the usual assortment of equine-type accoutrements. There was also a large amount of artwork, much of it consisting of finely wrought renderings of rolling hills and lush meadows, but also several paintings of mountain scenery. Jon-Tom was particularly taken by one that showed their hostess flanked by a pair of mountain goats. All three had a hoof raised to wave at the recording artist.

“Speed painter did that one for me. What do you think? Not a bad likeness.”

Mudge had strolled over to join Jon-Tom in inspecting the picture. “Looks like it were painted quite a few years ago.”

“Hmph.” Another snort as she turned and walked over to an oversize filing cabinet. Using lips and teeth, she opened the second drawer, sorted through the material inside, and pulled out a sheet of paper as thick as cardboard. This was placed on a nearby desk, between four raised pieces of wood that served to hold it in position.

“I can do moderately well with a toothpen, but anyone with hands and fingers can do better. It’s my standard contract. I’ve already had it modified to reflect our destination. Check it out.”

Clothahump waddled over, adjusted his glasses, and began to read. “I would think, madam, that judging from your age and circumstances, you are hardly in a position to dictate terms.”

“Is that a fact? Now let me tell you something, double-breather. I don’t need this job. I like living back here because this is where my friends are, because I like to look out at the creek, and because I can’t stand the way the swells in the high-rent district put on like their shoes are hammered out of gold. I’ve no need of external ornamentation, either on my body or in my home, to justify my competence to others. I’ve got plenty in the barracks bank, and I don’t ever have to work again unless it suits me. If you think you can do better, go up and down the lines and try to find somebody else to pack your junk up onto the Plateau this time of year.”

“If you’re so well-off,” Jon-Tom asked her, “why’d you volunteer to take us on in the first place?”

“Because, my dough-faced young human, I appreciate what you did in raising the curse from our city, and I believe in what you’re trying to do, according to what Sorenset told me. And unlike most of my colleagues, I have a broad mind as well as a broad back, not to mention a modicum of ethics. I think you deserve help—albeit at a fair price.