"Not my sorcerer, mate." A brightly feathered lizard pecked at some bananalike
fruit dangling from a nearby tree. " 'Ave another chocolate coin?"
"No thanks."
"Speakin* o' coins, that little sack o' silver he gave you might as well be
turned over to me for safe keepin', since you're under me protection."
"That's all right." Jon-Tom patted the pocket in which the coins reposed. "It's
safe enough with me, I think. Besides, my pockets are a lot higher than yours.
Harder to pick."
Instead of being insulted, the otter laughed uproariously. He clapped a furry
paw on Jon-Tom's lower back. "Maybe you're less the fool than you seem, mate.
Frost me if I don't think we'll make a decent animal out o' you yet!"
They waded a brook hauntingly like the one that ran through the botanical
gardens back on campus. Jon-Tom fought to keep his mind from melancholy
reminiscence. "Aren't you the least bit curious about this great crisis
Clothahump was referring to?" he asked.
"Bosh, that's probably just a figment o' 'is sorceral imagination. I've heard
tell plenty about what such chaps drink and smoke when they feels the mood. They
calls it wizardly speculatin'. Me, I calls it gettin' well stoked. Besides, why
dwell on crises real or imagined when one can 'ave so much fun from day t' day?"
"You should learn to study the thread of history."
Mudge shook his head. "You talk like that in Lynchbany and you will 'ave
trouble, mate. Thread o' 'Istory now, is it? Sure you won't trust me with that
silver?" Jon-Tom simply smiled. "Ah well, then."
Any last lingering thoughts that it might all still be a nightmare from which
he'd soon awake were forever dispelled when they'd come within a mile of
Lynchbany, following several days' march. Jon-Tom couldn't see it yet. It lay
over another rise and beyond a dense grove of pines. But he could clearly smell
it. The aroma of hundreds of animal bodies basking in the warmth of mid-morning
could not be mistaken.
"Something wrong, mate?" Mudge stretched away the last of his previous night's
rest. "You look a touch bilious."
"That odor..."
"We're near Lynchbany, like I promised."
"You mean that stench is normal?"
Mudge's black nose frisked the air. "No... I'd call 'er a mite weak today. Wait
until noontime, when the sun's at its 'ighest. Then it'll be normal."
"You have great wizards like Clothahump. Haven't any of them discovered the
formula for deodorant?"
Mudge looked confused. "What's that, mate? Another o' your incomprehensible
otherworldly devices?"
"It keeps you from smelling offensive," said Jon-Tom with becoming dignity.
"Now you do 'ave some queer notions in the other worlds. How are you t' know
your enemies if you can't smell 'em? And no friend can smell offensive. That be
a contradiction, do it not? If 'e was offensive, 'e wouldn't be a friend. O'
course you 'umans," and he sniffed scornfully. " 'ave always been pretty
scent-poor. I suppose you'd think it good if people 'ad no scent a'tall?"
"It wouldn't be such a bad idea."
"Well, don't go propoundin' your bizarre religious beliefs in Lynchbany,
guv'nor, or even with me t' defend you you won't last out the day."
They continued along the path. This near to town it showed the prints of many
feet.
"No scent," Mudge was muttering to himself. "No more sweet perfumes o' friends
and ladies t' enjoy. Cor, I'd rather be blind than unable t' smell, mate. What
senses do they use in your world, anyway?"
"The usual ones. Sight, hearing, touch, taste... and smell."
"And you'd wish away a fifth o' all your perception o' the universe for some
crazed theological theory?"
"It has nothing to do with theology," Jon-Tom countered, beginning to wonder if
his views on the matter weren't sounding silly even to himself. "It's a question
of etiquette."
"Piss on your etiquette. No greetin' smells." The otter sounded thoroughly
disgusted. "I don't think I'd care t' visit long in your world, Jon-Tom. But
we're almost there. Mind you keep control o' your expressions." He still
couldn't grasp the notion that anyone could find the odor of another friendly
creature offensive.
"You 'old your nose to someone and they'll likely spill your guts for you."
Jon-Tom nodded reluctantly. Take a few deep breaths, he told himself. He'd heard
that somewhere. Just take a few deep breaths and you'll soon be used to it.
They topped the little hill and were suddenly gazing across tree-tops at the
town. At the same time the full ripeness of it struck him. The thick musk was
like a barnyard sweltering in a swamp. He was hard pressed not to heave the
contents of his stomach out the wrong orifice.
" 'Ere now, don't you go be sick all over me!" Mudge took a few hasty steps
backward. "Brace up, lad. You'll soon be enjoyin' it!"
They started down the hill, the otter trotting easily, Jon-Tom staggering and
trying to keep his face blank. Shortly they encountered a sight which
simultaneously shoved all thought of vomiting aside while reminding him this was
a dangerous, barely civilized world he'd been dragged into.
It was a body similar to but different from Mudge's. It had its paws tied behind
its back and its legs strapped together. The head hung at an angle signifying a
neatly snapped neck. It was quite naked. Odd how quickly the idea of clothing on
an animal grew in one's mind, Jon-Tom thought.
Some kind of liquid resin or plastic completely encased the body. The eyes were
mercifully closed and the expression not pleasant to look upon. A sign lettered
in strange script was mounted on a post driven into the ground beneath the
dangling, preserved corpse. He turned questioningly to Mudge.
"That's the founder o' the town," came the reply.
Jon-Tom's eyes clung to the grotesque monument as they strolled around it. "Do
they always hang the founders of towns around here?"
"Not usually. Only under special circumstances. That's the corpse o' old Tilo
Bany. Ought t' be gettin' on a couple 'undred years old now."
"That body's been hanging there like that for hundreds of years?"
"Oh, 'e's well preserved, 'e is. Local wizard embalmed 'im nice and proper."
"That's barbaric."
"Want to hear the details?" asked Mudge. Jon-Tom nodded.
"As it goes, old Tilo there, 'e's a ferret you see--and they come o' no good
line t' start with--'e was a confidence man. Fleeced farmers 'ereabouts for
years and years, takin' their money most o' the time and their daughters on
occasion.
"Well, a bunch of 'em finally gets onto 'im. 'E'd been buyin' grain from one
farmer, sellin' it t' another, borrowin' the money, and buyin' more. It finally
came t' a 'ead when a couple o' 'is former customers found out that a lot o' the
grain they'd been buyin' afore'and existed only in Tilo's 'ead.
"They gets together, cornerin' 'im in this 'ere grove, and strings 'im up neat.
At that point a couple o' travelin' craftsmen... woodworker and a silversmith, I
think, or maybe one was a cobbler... decided that this 'ere valley with its easy
water would be a nice place t' start a craft's guild, and the town sort o' grew
up around it.
"When folks from elsewhere wanted t' locate the craftsmen, everyone around told
'em t' go t' the place where they'd lynched Tilo Bany, the confidence ferret.
And if you 'aven't noticed yet, guv, you're breathin' right easy now."
Much to his surprise, the queasiness had receded. The smell no longer seemed so
overpowering. "You're right. It's not so bad anymore."
"That's good. You stick near t' me, mate, and watch yourself. Some o' the local
bully-boys like t' toy with strangers, and you're stranger than most. Not that