neetha Napew - Spellsinger

come close.

He decided there was time later for questions, since the figure was pulling him

toward the haven promised by the back door, and that was his intended

destination anyway.

"Hurry it up!" Though muffled by fabric the voice was definitely human. "The

cops have been called and should be here any second." There was a decided

undertone of real fear in that warning, the reason for which Jon-Tom was to

discover soon enough.

Visions of hundreds of furry poliee swarming through the crowd filled his

thoughts. From the size and breadth of the conflict he guessed it would take at

least that number several more hours to quell the fighting. He was reckoning

without the ingenuity of Lynchbany law enforcement.

Mudge, upon hearing of the incipient arrival of the gendarmes, acted genuinely

terrified.

"That's fair warnin', mate," he yelled above the din, "and we'd best get out or

die trying." He redoubled his efforts to clear a path to the door.

"Why? What will they do?" He swung his staff in a short arc, brought it up

beneath the chin of a small but gamely threatening muskrat who was swinging at

Jon-Tom's ankles with a weapon like a scythe. Fortunately, he'd only nicked one

trouser leg before Jon-Tom knocked him out. "Do they kill people here for

fighting in public?"

"Worse than that." Mudge was nearly at the back door, fighting to keep potential

antagonists out of sword range and the invulnerable porcupines between himself

and the rest of the mob. Then he shouted frantically.

"Quickly--quick now, for your lives!" Jon-Tom thought it peculiar the otter had

not sought the identity of their concealed compatriot. "They're here!"

From his position head-and-shoulders high above the crowd Jon-Tom could see

across to the now distant main entrance. He also noted with concern that the

chefs and bartenders and waiters had vanished, abandoning their stock to the

crowd.

Four or five figures of indeterminate furry cast stood inside the entryway now.

They wore leathern bonnets decorated with flashing ovals of metal. Emblems on

shoulder vests glinted in the light from the remaining intact lamps and the

windows. There was a crash, and he saw that unmindful of the danger Mudge had

outlined, the appearance of the police had actually frightened one of the

fighters into following a chair out through a thick window pane. Jon-Tom

wondered what horrible fate was in store for the rest of the still battling mob.

Then he was following the strange figure and Mudge out through the door. As they

turned to slam and bar it with barrels behind them he had a last glimpse across

the room as the police took action against the combatants within. This was

accompanied by a whiff of something awful beyond imagining and concentrated

beyond the power of man or beast to endure.

It weakened him so badly that he barely had strength enough to heave his

not-yet-digested dinner all over the far wall. It helped his pride if not his

stomach to see that the momentary smell had produced the same effect on Mudge

and the maroon-clad stranger. As he knelt in the alley and emptied his

nausea-squeezed guts, the pattern he'd glimpsed on the arriving police came back

to him.

Then they were all up and stumbling, running down the cobble-stoned alley, the

mist still dense around them and the siriell of garbage like perfume compared to

that which was fading with merciful speed behind them.

"Very... efficient, though I'm not so sure I'd call it humane, even if no one is

killed." He clung tightly to his staff, using it for support as they slowed a

little.

"Aye, mate." Mudge jogged steadily alongside him, behind the long-legged

stranger. Occasionally he gave a worried, disgusted glance back over a shoulder

to check for possible pursuit. None materialized.

"Indecent it is. You only wish you were dead. It be that way in every town,

though. Tis clean and there's no after caterwaulerin' about accidental death or

police brutalness and such. There's worse things than takin' an occasional sword

in the side, though. Like puking to death.

"Makes it a good thing for the skunks, though. I've never seen a one of those

black and white offal that lacked a good job in any township. 'Tis a brother and

sisterhood sort of comradeship they 'ave, which is well for 'em, since none o'

the common folk care for their companionship. They keep the peace, I suppose,

and keep t' themselves." He shuddered. "And keep in mind, mate, that we were

clean across the room from 'em. Those by the front will likely not touch food

for days." Several small lizards left their claimed bit of rotting meat,

skittered into a hole in the wall while the refugees hurried past, then returned

to their scavenging.

"Never could stand 'em myself, either. I don't like cops and I cannot abide

anyone who fights with 'is rear end."

Noises reached them from the far end of the alley and vestiges of that ghastly

odor materialized to stab at Jon-Tom's nostrils and stomach.

"They're followin'," said a worried Mudge. "Save us from that. I'd far rather be

cut."

"This way!" urged the cloaked figure. They turned up a branch of the alleyway.

Mist covered everything, slickened walls and cobblestones and trash underfoot.

They plunged onward, heedless of falling.

Gradually the smell began to recede once more. Jon-Tom was grateful for the time

he'd spent on the basketball court, and for the unusual stride that enabled him

to keep up with the hyperactive Mudge and their racing and still identityless

savior.

"They took the main passage," said that voice. "This should be safe enough."

They had emerged on a small side street. Dim will-o'-the-wisp glows came from

the warm globes of the street lamps overhead. It was quite dark otherwise, and

though the mist curtained the sky Jon-Tom was certain that sunset had come and

gone while they'd been dining in the restaurant.

The stranger unwrapped the muffler covering face and neck and let it hang across

shoulders and back. Cloak, shirt, and pants were made of the same maroon

material touched with silver thread. The material was neither leather nor cotton

but some mysterious organic hybrid. Pants, boots, and blouse had further

delicate designs of copper thread worked through them, as did the high, almost

Napoleonic collar.

A slim blade, half foil, half saber, was slung neatly from the waist. She stood

nearly as tall as Mudge's five foot six, which Jon-Tom had been given to

understand was tall for a human woman hereabouts. She turned, still panting from

the run, to study them. He was glad of the opportunity to reciprocate.

The maroon clothing fit snugly without binding and the face above it, though

expectedly petite, was hard and sharp-featured. The green eyes were more like

Mudge's than his own. They moved with almost equal rapidity over street and

alleyway, never ceasing. Her shoulder-length curls were flame-red. Not the

red-orange of most redheads but a fiery, flashing crimson that looked in the

lamplight like kinky blood.

Save for her coloring and the absence of fur and whiskers she displayed all the

qualities of an active otter. Only the pale green eyes softened the savage image

she presented, standing there nervously by the side of a building that seemed to

swoop winglike above them in the mist.

As for the rest of her, he had the damndest feeling he was seeing a cylindrical

candy bar well packed with peanuts. Her voice was full of hints of clove and