neetha Napew - Spellsinger

sky and danced or fought in silhouette against the cloud-shrouded moon.

A group of drunken raccoons and coatis ambled past them. Their capes and vests

were liquor-stained. One inebriated bobcat tottered in their midst. She was

magnificently dressed in a long flowing skirt and broad-rimmed hat. With short

tail switching and cat-eyes piercing the night she looked as if she might just

have emerged from a stage version of Puss n' Boots, though the way her companion

coati was pawing her was anything but fairytalish.

They encountered a group of voles and opossums on their way to work. Having just

arisen from a long day's sleep, the workers were anxious to reach their jobs.

The revelers would not let them pass. There was shoving and pushing, much of it

good-natured, as the workers made their way at last up the street.

"Down this way," Caz directed them. They turned down a narrow, winding road. The

lighting was more garish, the noise from busy establishments more raucous.

Heavily made-up faces boasting extreme coloration of fur and skin only partly

due to cosmetics beckoned to them from various windows. By no means were all of

them of a female cast. Flor in particular studied them with as much interest as

ever she'd devoted to a class in the sociology of nineteenth-century theater.

Occasionally these faces would regard them with more than usual intent. These

stares were reserved primarily for the giants Flor and Jon-Tom. Some of the

comments that accompanied these looks were as appreciative as they were ribald.

"My feet are beginning to hurt," Jon-Tom told Caz. "How much farther? You know

where you're taking us?"

"In a nonspecific way, yes, my friend. We are searching for an establishment

that combines the best of all possible worlds. Not every tavern offers sport.

Not every gaming house supplies refreshment. And of the few that offer all, not

many are reputable enough to set foot in."

Still another corner they turned. To his surprise Jon-Tom noted that Talea had

sidled close to him.

"It's nice to be out," he said conversationally. "Not that I was so

uncomfortable back there in the barracks, but it's the principle of the thing.

If they think they can get away with restricting our movements, then they'll be

more inclined to do so, and less respeetful of Clothahump's information."

"That's so," she said huskily. "But that's not what concerns me now."

"No?" He put his arm around her experimentally. She didn't resist. He thought

back to that morning in the forest when he'd awakened to find her curled up

against his shoulder. That warmth communicated itself now through her shirt and

cape. It traveled through his fingers right up his arm and down toward nether

regions.

"What does concern you, then?" he asked affectionately.

"That for the past several minutes we've been followed." Startled, Jon-Tom

started to look back over his shoulder when a hand jabbed painfully into his

ribs.

"Don't look at them, you idiot!" He forced his eyes resolutely ahead. "There are

six or seven of them, I think."

"Maybe it's just another group of party-goers," he said hopefully.

"I don't think so. They've neither fallen behind us, turned off on a different

street, nor come any nearer. They've kept too consistent a gap between us to

mean well."

"Then what should we do?" he asked her.

"Probably turn into the next tavern. If they mean us any harm, they'll be more

reluctant to try anything in front of a room full of witnesses."

"We can't be sure of that. Why not send Pog back to check 'em out," he suggested

brightly, "before we jump to any conclusions? At the least he can tell us

exactly how many of them there are and how heavily armed they are."

She looked up at him approvingly. "That's more like it. The more suspicious you

become, Jon-Tom, the longer you'll live. Pog! Pog?" The others looked back at

her curiously.

"Pog! Good-for-nothing parasitic airborne piece of shit, where the hell--?"

"Stow it, sister!" The bat was abruptly fluttering in front of them. "I've got

some bad news for ya."

"We already know," Talea informed him.

He looked puzzled, remained hovering a couple of feet in front of them as they

walked. "You do? But how could you? I flew on ahead because I was getting bored,

and surely ya can't see...?"

"Wait... wait a second," muttered Jon-Tom. "Ahead? But," and he jerked a thumb

back over his left shoulder, "we were talking about the group that's be--"

"That's far enough!" declaimed a strange voice.

"Whup... see yas." Pog suddenly rocketed straight up into the darkness formed by

garrets and overhanging beams.

Jon-Tom hastily searched the street. The nearest open doorway from which music

and laughter emerged was at least half a block ahead of them on the left. At the

moment there was nothing flanking them save a couple of dark portals. One led

into a close that pierced a labyrinth of stairways. The other was heavily barred

with iron-studded shutters.

There was no one else in sight. Not a single stray celebrant, or better still,

any of the city's night patrol.

In front of them waited perhaps a dozen heavily armed humans. Most boasted long

scraggly hair and longer faces. They hefted clubs, maces, quarterstaffs, and

bolas. It was an impressive assortment of armament. Not until much later did he

have time to reflect on the fact that there was not a single serious killing

weapon, not one knife or spear or sword, among them.

The humans had spread themselves into a semicircle across the street, blocking

it completely. Jon-Tom considered the narrow close a last time. It had more the

look of a trap than a means of escape.

Two-thirds of the humans were male, the rest female. None wore decent clothes or

pleasant looks. All were roughly Talea's height. Even Caz was taller than most

of them. Their attention was on Jon-Tom and Flor, whom they regarded with

unconcealed interest.

"We'd appreciate it if you'd come along with us." This request was made by a

stocky blond fellow in the middle of the group. His beard seemed to continue

right down into his naked chest, as did the drooping mustache. In fact, he

displayed so much hair that Jon-Tom wondered in the darkness if he really was

human and not one of the other furry local citizens.

That led him to consider the unusual homogeneity of the group. Up till now,

every gathering of locals he'd encountered, whether diners or merchants, sailors

or pedestrians, had been racially mixed.

He looked backward. The lot who'd been trailing them had spread out to block any

retreat back up the street and yes, they were also wholely human, and similarly

armed.

"That's nice of you," Caz said, replying to the invitation, "but we have other

plans of our own." He spoke for all his companions. Jon-Tom casually swung his

staff around from his back, slipped the duar out of the way. Talea's hand

dropped to her sword. There was some uneasy shuffling among the humans

confronting them.

"I'm sorry. We insist."

"I wish you would encyst," said Flor cheerfully, "preferably with something

cancerous."

The insult was lost on the man, who simply blinked at her. Both clusters began

to crowd the travelers, edging in from front and back.

There was a light metallic sound as Talea's sword appeared in her hand. "First

one of you rodents lays a hand on me is cold meat."

In the dim light from the oil lamps Jon-Tom thought she looked lovelier than