neetha Napew - Spellsinger

against a shuttered storefront. A huge double wagon was coming toward them, one

trailing behind another. The vehicle required nearly the entire width of the

street for passage.

Jon-Tom regarded it with interest. The haggard, dripping driver was a margay.

The little tiger cat's bright eyes flashed beneath the wide-brimmed floppy felt

hat he wore. Behind him, riding the second half of the wagon, was a cursing

squirrel no more than three feet tall His tail was curled over his head,

providing extra protection from the now steadily falling rain. He was struggling

to tug heavy canvas or leather sheets over the cargo of fruits and vegetables.

Four broad-shouldered lizards pulled the double wagon. They were colored

iridescent blue and green, and in the gloom their startlingly pink eyes shone

like motorcycle taillights. They swayed constantly from side to side, demanding

unvarying attention from their yowling, hissing driver, who manipulated them as

much with insults as with cracks from his long thin whip.

Momentarily generating a louder rumble than the isolated bursts of thunder, the

enormous wagon slid on past and turned a difficult far corner.

"I've no sympathy for the chap who doesn't know 'is business," snorted Mudge as

they continued on their way, hugging the sides of buildings in search of some

protection from the downpour. "That lot ought long since to 'ave been under

cover."

It was raining quite heavily now. Most of the windows had been closed or

shuttered. The darkness made the buildings appear to be leaning over the street.

From above and behind came a distant, sharp chirping. Jon-Tom glanced over a

shoulder, thought he saw a stellar jay clad in yellow-purple kilt and vest

alight on one of the fourth-floor landing posts and squeeze through an opening.

There was a faint thump as the circular door was slammed behind him.

They hurried on, sprinting from one rickety wooden porch covering to the next.

Once they paused in the sheltering lee of what might have been a bookstore.

Scrollstore, rather, since it was filled with ceiling-high wooden shelves

punched out like a massive wine rack. Each hole held its thick roll of paper.

As Mudge had indicated, the rain was washing the filth from the cobblestones and

the now swollen central creek carried it efficiently away.

The front moved through and the thunder faded. Instead of the heavy, driving

rain the clouds settled down to shedding a steady drizzle. The temperature had

dropped, and Jon-Tom shivered in his drenched T-shirt and jeans.

"Begging your pardon, sir."

Jon-Tom uncrossed his arms. "What?" He looked to his right. The source of the

voice was in a narrow alley barely large enough to allow two people to pass

without turning sideways.

A gibbon lay huddled beneath a slight overhang, curled protectively against

several large wooden barrels filled with trash. His fuzzy face was shielded by

several large scraps of wrapping paper that had been wound together and tied

with a knot beneath his chin. This crude hat hung limp in the rain. Badly ripped

trousers of some thin cotton material covered the hairy legs. He had no shirt.

Long arms enfolded the shivering chest, and large circular sores showed where

the hair had fallen out. One eye socket was a dark little hollow.

A delicately fingered hand extended hopefully in Jon-Tom's direction. "A

silverpiece, sir. For one unlucky in war and unluckier still in peacetime? It

was a bad upbringing and a misinformed judiciary that cost me this eye, sir. Now

I exist only on the sufferance of others." Jon-Tom stood and gaped at the

pitiful creature.

"A few coppers then, sir, if you've no silver to give?" The gibbon's voice was

harsh with infection.

Suddenly he shrank back, falling against the protective trashcans. One fell

over, spilling shreds of paper, bones, and other recognizable detritus into the

alley. Dimensional dislocation does not eliminate the universality of garbage.

"Nay, sir, nay!" An arm shook as the simian held it across his face. "I meant no

harm."

Mudge stood alongside Jon-Tom. The otter's sword was halfway clear of its chest

scabbard. "I'll not 'ave you botherin' this gentleman while 'e's in my care!" He

took another step toward the ruined anthropoid. "Maybe you mean no 'arm and

maybe you do, but you'll do none while I'm about."

"Take it easy," murmured Jon-Tom, eyeing the cowering gibbon sympathetically.

"Can't you see he's sick?"

"Sick be the word, aright. D'you not know 'ow to treat beggars, mate?" He pulled

on his sword. The gibbon let out a low moan.

"I do." Jon-Tom reached into his pocket, felt for the small linen purse

Clothahump had given him. He withdrew a small coin, tossed it to the gibbon. The

simian scrambled among the stones and trash for it.

"Blessings on you, sir! Heaven kiss you!"

Mudge turned away, disgustedly sliding his sword back in place. "Waste o'

money." He put a hand on Jon-Tom's arm. "Come on, then. Let's get you t' the

shop I 'ave in mind before you spend yourself broke. It's a hard world, mate,

and you'd better learn that soonest. You never saw the blighter's knife, I take

it?"

"Knife?" Jon-Tom looked back toward the alley entrance. "What knife?" He felt

queasy.

48

"Aye, wot knife indeed." He let out a sharp squeek. "If I 'adn't of been with

you you'd 'ave found out wot knife. But I guess you can't 'elp yourself. Your

brains bein' up that 'igh, I expect they thin along with the air, wot? 'Wot

knife'... pfagh!" He stopped, glared up at the dazed Jon-Tom.

"Now if 'twere just up t' me, mate, I'd let you make as much the idiot of

yourself as you seem to 'ave a mind t'. But I can't risk offendin' 'is

wizardship, see? So until I've seen you safely set up in the world and on your

own way t' where I think you might be able t' take some care for yourself,

you'll do me the courtesy from now on o' takin' me advice. And if you'll not

think o' yourself, then 'ave some pity for me. Mind the threats that Clothahump

put on me." He shook his head, turned, and started on down the street again.

"Me! Who was unlucky enough to trip over you when you tripped into my day."

"Yeah? What about me, then? You think I like it here? You think I like you, you

fuzz-faced little fart?"

To Jon-Tom's dismay, Mudge smiled instead of going for his sword. "Now that's

more like it, mate! That's a better attitude than givin' away your money." He

spat back in the direction of the alley. "God-rotted stinkin' layabout trash as

soon split your gut as piss on you. D'you wonder I like it better in the forest,

mate?"

They turned off the main street into a side avenue that was not as small as an

alley, not impressive enough to be a genuine street. It boasted half a dozen

shopfronts huddled together in the throat of a long cul-de-sac. A single tall

oil lamp illuminated the street. Cloth awnings almost met over the street,

shutting out much of the lamplight as well as the rain. A miniature version of

the central stream sprang from a stone fountain at the end of the cul-de-sac.

Jon-Tom shook water from his hands, and squeezed it from his long hair as he

ducked under the cover of one awning. It was not designed to shield someone of

his height. He stared at the sign over the large front window of the shop. It

was almost comprehensible. Perhaps the longer he spent here the more acclimated

his brain became. In any case, he did not have to understand the lettering to