neetha Napew - Spellsinger

appearance he was positive his new attire gave him, his mood was downright

expansive. "It was a tough task for him and he did a helluva job. I don't

begrudge him the money. Besides," he jingled the purse in his pocket, "we still

have some left."

"That's good, because we've one more stop t' make."

"Another?" Jon-Tom frowned. "I don't need any more clothing."

"That so? Far as I'm concerned, mate, you're walkin' around bloody naked." He

turned right. They passed four or five storefronts on the wide street, crossed

the cobblestones and a little bridge arcing over the central stream, and entered

another shop.

It possessed an entirely different ambiance from the warm tailor shop they'd

just left. While the fox's establishment had been spotless, soft-looking, and

comfortable as an old den, this one was chill with an air of distasteful

business.

One entire wall was speckled with devices designed for throwing. There were

dozens of knives; ellipsoidal, stiletto, triangular, with or without blood

gutters grooved nastily in their flanks, gem-encrusted little pig-stickers for

argumentative ladies, trick knives concealed in eyeglass cases or boot soles...

all the deadly variety of which the honer was capable.

Throwing stars shone in the lamplight like decorations plucked from the devil's

Christmas tree. A spiked bolo hung from an intricate halberd. Maces and nunchaku

alternated wall space with spears and shields, pikes and war axes. Near the back

of the shop were the finer weapons, long bows and swords with more variety of

handle (to fit many different size and shape of hand) than of blade. One

particularly ugly half-sword looked more like a double scythe. It was easy to

envision the damage it could do when wielded by a knowledgeable arm. That of a

gibbon with a deceptive reach, for example.

Some of the swords and throwing knives had grooved or hollow handles. Jon-Tom

was at a loss to imagine what sort of creature they'd been designed for until he

remembered the birds. A hand would not make much use of such grips, but they

were perfect for, say, a flexible wing tip.

For a few high moments he'd managed to forget that this was a world of

established violence and quick death. He leaned over the counter barring the

back of the shop from the front and studied something that resembled a

razor-edged frisbee. He shuddered, and looked around for Mudge.

The otter had moved around the counter and had vanished behind a bamboolike

screen. When Jon-Tom thought to call to him, he was already returning, chatting

with the owner. The squat, muscular raccoon wore only an apron, sandals, and a

red headband with two feathers sticking downward past his left ear. He smelled,

as did the back of the shop, of coalsmoke and steel.

"So this is the one who wants the mayhem?" The raccoon pursed his lips, looked

over a black nose at Jon-Tom.

"Mudge, I don't know about this. I've always been a talker, not a fighter."

"I understand, mate," said the otter amiably. "But there are weighty arguments

and there are weighty arguments." He hefted a large mace to further illustrate

his point. "Leastways, you don't have to employ none of these tickle-me-tights,

but you bloody well better show something or you'll mark yourself an easy

target.

"Now, can you use any of these toys?"

Jon-Tom examined the bewildering array of dismembering machinery. "I don't..."

he shook his head, looking confused.

The armorer stepped in. "Tis plain to see he's no experience." His tone was

reproving but patient. "Let me see, now. With his size and reach..." He moved

thoughtfully to a wall where pikes and spears grew like iron wheat from the

floor, each set in its individual socket in the wooden planks. His right paw

rubbed at his nose.

With both hands he removed an ax with a blade the size of his head. "Where skill

and subtlety are absent, mayhap it would be best to make use of the other

extremes. No combat or weapons training at all, young lad?"

Jon-Tom shook his head, looked unencouraging.

"What about sports?"

"I'm not bad at basketball. Pretty good jump shot, and I can--"

"Shit!" Mudge kicked at the floor. "What the devil's arse is that? Does it

perhaps involve some hittin'?" he asked hopefully.

"Not much," Jon-Tom admitted. "Mostly running and jumping, quick movements...."

"Well, that be something," Mudge faced the armorer. "Something less bull-bright

than that meat cleaver you're holdin', then. What would you recommend?"

"A fast retreat." The armorer turned dourly to another rack, preening his

whiskers. "Though if the man can lay honest claim to some nimbleness, there

ought to be something." He put up the massive ax. "Mayhap we can give him some

help."

He removed what looked like a simple spear, made from the polished limb of a

tree. But instead of a spearpoint, the upper end widened into a thick wooden

knob with bumps and dull points. It was taller than Mudge and reached Jon-Tom's

ears, the shaft some two inches in diameter.

"Just a club?" Mudge studied the weapon uncertainly.

"Tis the longest thing I've got in the shop." The armorer dragged a clipped nail

down the shaft. "This is ramwood. It won't snap in a fight. With your friend's

long reach, he can use it to fend an opponent off if he's not much interested in

properly disposing of him. And if things get tight and he's still blood-shy,

why, a good clop on the head with the business end of this will make someone

just as dead as if you'd split his skull. Not as messy as the ax, but just as

effective." He handed it to the reluctant Jon-Tom.

"It'll make you a fine walking stick, too, man. And there's something else. I

mentioned giving you some help." He pointed at the middle of the staff. Halfway

up the shaft were two bands of inlaid silver three inches apart. The space

between was decorated with four silver studs.

"Press any one of those, man."

Jon-Tom did so. There was a click, and the staff instantly grew another foot.

Twelve inches of steel spike now projected from the base of the staff. Jon-Tom

was so surprised he almost dropped the weapon, but Mudge danced about like a kid

in a candy shop.

"Bugger me mother if that ain't a proper surprise for any discourteous dumb-butt

you might meet in the street. A little rub from that'll cure 'em right quick, I

venture!"

"Aye," agreed the armorer with pride. "Just tap 'em on the toe and press your

release and I guarantee you'll see one fine wide-eyed expression." Both raccoon

and otter shook with amusement.

Jon-Tom pushed down on the shaft and the spear-spike retracted like a cats-claw

up inside the staff. Another experimental grip on the studs, and it shot out

once more. It was clever, but certainly not amusing.

"Listen, I'd rather not fool with this thing at all, but if you insist..."

"I do." Mudge stopped laughing, wiped tears from his eyes. "I do insist. Like

the master armorer 'ere says, you don't 'ave t' use that toe-chopper if you've

no mind t', but there'll likely be times when you'll want t' keep some

sword-swingin' sot a fair few feet from your guts. So take claim to it and be

glad."

Jon-Tom hefted the shaft, but he wasn't glad. Merely having possession of the

deceptive weapon was depressing him.

Outside they examined the contents of the little purse. It was nearly empty. A

few small silver coins gleamed forlornly like fish in a dark tank from the

bottom of the sack. Jon-Tom wondered if he hadn't been slightly profligate with