neetha Napew - Spellsinger

Clothahump's generosity.

Mudge appraised the remnants of their fortune. Mist continued to dampen them,

softening the lamplight that buttered the street and shopfronts. With the easing

of the rain, other pedestrians had reappeared. Animal shadow-shapes moved dimly

through the fog.

"Hungry, mate?" asked the otter finally, black eyes shining in the light.

"Starving!" He was abruptly aware he hadn't had a thing to eat all day. Mudge's

store of jerked meat had given out the previous evening.

"I also." He clapped Jon-Tom on his cape. "Now you looks almost like a real

person." He leaned conspiratorially close. "Now I know a place where the silver

we 'ave left will bring us as fat a feast as a pregnant hare could wish. Maybe

even enough t' fill your attenuated belly-hollow!" He winked. "Maybe some

entertainment besides. You and I 'ave done our duty for the day, we 'ave."

As they strolled further into town, they encountered more pedestrians. An

occasional wagon jounced down the street, and individuals on saddled riding

lizards hopped or ran past. Long pushbrooms came into play as shopkeepers swept

water from porches and storefronts. Shutters snapped open. For the first time

Jon-Tom heard the wails of children. Cubs would be the better term, he corrected

himself.

Two young squirrels scampered by. One finally tackled the other. They tumbled to

the cobblestones, rolling over and over, punching and kicking while a small mob

of other youngsters gathered around and urged them on. To Jon-Tom's dismay their

initial cuteness was muted by the manner in which they gouged and scratched at

each other. Not that his own hometown was devoid of violence, but it seemed to

be a way of life here. One cub finally got the other down and was assiduously

making pulp of his face. His peers applauded enthusiastically, offering

suggestions for further disfigurement.

"A way of life, mate?" Mudge said thoughtfully when Jon-Tom broached his

thoughts. "I wouldn't know. I'm no philosopher, now. But I know this. You can be

polite and dead or respected and breathin'." He shrugged. "Now you can make your

own choice. Just don't be too ready to put aside that nice new toy you've

bought."

Jon-Tom made sure he had a good grip on the staff. The increasing crowd and

lifting of the fog brought fresh stares. Mudge assured him it was only on

account of his unusual size. If anything, he was now clad far better than the

average citizen of Lynchbany Towne.

Five minutes later he was no longer simply hungry, he was ravenous.

"Not much longer, mate." They turned down a winding side street. There was an

almost hidden entrance on their left, into which Mudge urged him. Once again he

had to bend nearly double to clear the overhang.

Then he was able to stand. The ceiling inside was a good two feet above his

head, for which he was more than slightly grateful.

"The Pearl Possum," said Mudge, with considerably more enthusiasm than he'd

displayed toward anything else so far. "Me, I'm for somethin' liquid now. This

way, mate. 'Ware the lamps."

Jon-Tom followed the otter into the bowels of the restaurant, elbowing his way

through the shoving, tightly packed crowd and keeping a lookout for the

occasional hanging lamps Mudge had warned him about. From outside there was no

hint of the considerable, sweaty mob milling inside.

Eight feet inside the entrance, the ceiling curved upward like a circus tent. It

peaked a good two and a half stories above the floor. Beneath this central

height was a circular counter dispensing food and brew. It was manned by a small

battalion of cooks and mixolo-gists. A couple were weasels. There was also a

single, nattily dressed rabbit and one scroungy-looking bat, smaller and even

uglier than Pog. Not surprisingly, the bat spent most of his time delivering

food and drink to various tables. Jon-Tom knew of other restaurants which would

have been glad of an arboreal waiter.

What tables there were spotted the floor like fat toadstools in no particular

order. On the far side of the Pearl Possum were partially enclosed booths

designed for discussion or dalliance, depending on the inclination of the

inhabitants.

They continued to make their way through the noisy, malodorous crowd. Isolated

ponds of liquor littered the floor, along with several splinters from smashed

wooden mugs. The owners had sensibly disdained the use of glass. Numerous drains

pockmarked the wooden planking underfoot. Occasionally someone would appear with

a bucket of water to wash down a section of floor too slippery with booze,

sometimes of the partially digested variety.

He was easily the tallest man--the tallest animal--in the room, though there

were a couple of large wolves and cats who were built more massively. It made

him feel only a little more confident.

" 'Ere lad, over 'ere!" Following the triumphant shout Jon-Tom felt himself

yanked down to a small but abandoned table. His knees pressed up toward his

chest-the chairs were much too low for comfortable seating.

Furry bodies pressed close on all sides, filling his nostrils with the stink of

liquor and musk. Supporting the table was the sculpted plaster figure of a

coquettishly posed female opposum. It had been scratched and engraved with so

many lewd comments that the sheen was almost gone.

Somehow a waiter noticed that their hands and table were empty, shoved his way

through to them. Like the armorer he was wearing an apron, only this one was

filthy beyond recognition, the pattern beneath obliterated by grease and other

stains. Like the armorer he was a black-masked raccoon. One ear was badly

mangled, and a white scar ran boldly from the ear down the side of his head,

just past the eye, and on through the muzzle, but particularly noticeable where

it crossed the black mask.

Jon-Tom was too busy observing the life and action swirling around them to

notice that Mudge had already ordered.

"Not t' worry, mate. I ordered for you."

"I hope you ordered food, as well as liquor. I'm hungrier than ever."

"That I 'ave, mate. Any fool knows 'tis not good t' drink on an empty belly.

'Ere you, watch yourself." He jabbed an elbow into the ribs of the drunken

ocelot who'd stumbled into him.

The animal spun, waving his mug and sending liquor spilling toward the otter.

Mudge dodged the drink with exceptional speed. The feline made a few yowling

comments about the rib jab, but was too sloshed to pick a serious fight. It

lurched helplessly off into the crowd. Jon-Tom followed the pointy, weaving ears

until their owner was out of sight.

Two large wooden mugs of something highly carbonated and smelling of alcohol

arrived. The hardwood mug looked oversized in Mudge's tiny hand, but it was just

the right size for Jon-Tom. He tried a sip of the black liquid within, found it

to be a powerful fermented brew something like a highly alcoholic malt liquor.

He determined to treat it respectfully.

The waiter's other hand deposited a large platter covered by a badly dented and

scratched metal dome. When the dome was removed, Jon-Tom's nose was assailed by

a wonderfully rich aroma. On the platter were all kinds of vegetables. Among

strange shapes were comfortingly familiar carrots, radishes, celery, and tiny

onions. A raft of potatoes supported a huge cylindrical roast. A single center

bone showed at either end. It was burnt black outside and shaded to pink near

the bone.