neetha Napew - Spellsinger

line t' start with--'e was a confidence man. Fleeced farmers 'ereabouts for

years and years, takin' their money most o' the time and their daughters on

occasion.

"Well, a bunch of 'em finally gets onto 'im. 'E'd been buyin' grain from one

farmer, sellin' it t' another, borrowin' the money, and buyin' more. It finally

came t' a 'ead when a couple o' 'is former customers found out that a lot o' the

grain they'd been buyin' afore'and existed only in Tilo's 'ead.

"They gets together, cornerin' 'im in this 'ere grove, and strings 'im up neat.

At that point a couple o' travelin' craftsmen... woodworker and a silversmith, I

think, or maybe one was a cobbler... decided that this 'ere valley with its easy

water would be a nice place t' start a craft's guild, and the town sort o' grew

up around it.

"When folks from elsewhere wanted t' locate the craftsmen, everyone around told

'em t' go t' the place where they'd lynched Tilo Bany, the confidence ferret.

And if you 'aven't noticed yet, guv, you're breathin' right easy now."

Much to his surprise, the queasiness had receded. The smell no longer seemed so

overpowering. "You're right. It's not so bad anymore."

"That's good. You stick near t' me, mate, and watch yourself. Some o' the local

bully-boys like t' toy with strangers, and you're stranger than most. Not that

I'd be afraid t' remonstrate with any of 'em, mind now."

They were leaving the shade of the forest. Mudge gestured ahead. His voice was

full of provincial pride.

"There she be, Jon-Tom. Lynchbany Towne."

IV

No fairy spires or slick and shiny pennant-studded towers here, Jon-Tom mused as

he gazed at the village. No rainbow battlements, no thin cloud-piercing turrets

inlaid with gold, silver, and precious gems. Lynchbany was a community built to

be lived in, not looked at. Clearly, its inhabitants knew no more of moorish

palaces and peacock-patrolled gardens than did Jon-Tom.

Hemmed in by forest on both sides, the buildings and streets meandered down a

narrow valley. A stream barely a yard wide trickled through the town center. It

divided the main street, which, like most of the side streets he could see, was

paved with cobblestones shifted here from some distant riverbed. Only the narrow

creek channel itself was unpaved.

They continued down the path, which turned to cobblestone as it came abreast of

the rushing water. Despite his determination to keep his true feelings inside,

the fresh nausea that greeted him as they reached the first buildings generated

unwholesome wrinkles on his face. It was evident that the little stream served

as community sewer as well as the likely source of potable water. He reminded

himself firmly not to drink anything in Lynchbany unless it was bottled or

boiled.

Around them rose houses three, sometimes four stories tall. Sharp-peaked roofs

were plated with huge foot-square shingles of wood or gray slate. Windows turned

translucent eyes on the street from see-ond and third floors. An occasional

balcony projected out over the street.

Fourth floors and still higher attics displayed rounded entrances open to the

air. Thick logs were set below each circular doorway. Round windows framed many

of these aerial portals. They were obviously home to the arboreal inhabitants of

the town, cousins of the red-breasted, foul-mouthed public servant they had met

delivering mail to Clothahump's tree several days ago.

The little canyon was neither very deep nor particularly narrow, but the houses

still crowded together like children in a dark room. The reason was economic;

it's simpler and cheaper to build a common wall for two separate structures.

A few flew pennants from poles set in their street-facing sides, or from the

crests of sharply gabled rooftops. They could have been family crests, or

signals, or advertisements; Jon-Tom had no idea. More readily identifiable

banners in the form of some extraordinary washing hung from lines strung over

narrow alleyways. He tried to identify the shape of the owners from the position

and length of the arms and legs, but was defeated by the variety.

At the moment furry arms and hands were working from upper-floor windows,

hastily pulling laundry off the lines amid much muttering and grumbling. Thunder

rumbled through the town, echoing off the cobblestone streets and the damp walls

of cut rock and thick wooden beams. Each building was constructed for solidity,

a small home put together as strongly as a castle.

Shutters clapped hollowly against bracings as dwellers sealed their residences

against the approaching storm. Smoke, ashy and pungent, borne by an occasional

confused gust of wet wind, drifted down to the man and otter. Another rumble

bounced through the streets. A glance overhead showed dark clouds clotting like

black cream. First raindrops slapped at his skin.

Mudge increased his pace and Jon-Tom hurried to keep up. He was too fascinated

by the town to ask where they were rushing to, sufficiently absorbed in his

surroundings not to notice the isolated stares of other hurrying pedestrians.

After another couple of blocks, he finally grew aware of the attention they were

drawing.

"It's your size, mate," Mudge told him.

As they hurried on, Jon-Tom took time to look back at the citizens staring at

him. None stood taller than Mudge. Most were between four and five feet tall. It

did not make him feel superior. Instead, he felt incredibly awkward and out of

place.

He drew equally curious stares from the occasional human he passed. All the

locals were similarly clad, allowing for personal differences in taste and

station. Silk, wool, cotton, and leather appeared to be the principal materials.

Shirts, blouses, vests, and pants were often decorated with beads and feathers.

An astonishing variety of hats were worn, from wide-brimmed

seventeenth-century-style feathered to tiny, simple berets, to feathered peaked

caps like Mudge's. Boots alternated with sandals on feet of varying size. He

later learned one had a choice between warm, filthy boots or chilly but easily

cleanable sandals.

Keeping clean could be a full-time trial. They crossed the main street just in

time to avoid a prestorm deluge when an irritable and whitened old possum dumped

out a bucket of slops from a second-floor porch into the central stream, barely

missing the pair below.

"Hey... watch it!" Jon-Tom shouted upward at the closing shutters.

"Now wot?"

"That wasn't very considerate," Jon-Tom mumbled, his nose twisting at the odor.

Mudge frowned at him. "Stranger and stranger sound your customs, guv. Now wot

else is she supposed t' do with the 'ouse'old night soil?" With a hand he traced

the winding course of the steady stream that flowed through the center of the

street.

"This time o' year it rains 'ere nigh every day. The rain washes the soil into

the central flue 'ere and the stream packs it off right proper."

Jon-Tom let out fervent thanks he hadn't appeared in this land in summertime.

"It wasn't her action I was yelling about. It was her aim. Damned if I don't

think she was trying to hit us."

Mudge smiled. "Now that be a thought, mate. But when you're as dried up and

'ousebound as that faded old sow, I expect you grab at every chance for

amusement you can."

"What about common courtesy?" Jon-Tom muttered, shaking slop from his shoes.

"Rely on it if you wants t' die young, says I."

Shouts sounded from ahead. They moved to one side of the street and leaned up