I'd be afraid t' remonstrate with any of 'em, mind now."
They were leaving the shade of the forest. Mudge gestured ahead. His voice was
full of provincial pride.
"There she be, Jon-Tom. Lynchbany Towne."
IV
No fairy spires or slick and shiny pennant-studded towers here, Jon-Tom mused as
he gazed at the village. No rainbow battlements, no thin cloud-piercing turrets
inlaid with gold, silver, and precious gems. Lynchbany was a community built to
be lived in, not looked at. Clearly, its inhabitants knew no more of moorish
palaces and peacock-patrolled gardens than did Jon-Tom.
Hemmed in by forest on both sides, the buildings and streets meandered down a
narrow valley. A stream barely a yard wide trickled through the town center. It
divided the main street, which, like most of the side streets he could see, was
paved with cobblestones shifted here from some distant riverbed. Only the narrow
creek channel itself was unpaved.
They continued down the path, which turned to cobblestone as it came abreast of
the rushing water. Despite his determination to keep his true feelings inside,
the fresh nausea that greeted him as they reached the first buildings generated
unwholesome wrinkles on his face. It was evident that the little stream served
as community sewer as well as the likely source of potable water. He reminded
himself firmly not to drink anything in Lynchbany unless it was bottled or
boiled.
Around them rose houses three, sometimes four stories tall. Sharp-peaked roofs
were plated with huge foot-square shingles of wood or gray slate. Windows turned
translucent eyes on the street from see-ond and third floors. An occasional
balcony projected out over the street.
Fourth floors and still higher attics displayed rounded entrances open to the
air. Thick logs were set below each circular doorway. Round windows framed many
of these aerial portals. They were obviously home to the arboreal inhabitants of
the town, cousins of the red-breasted, foul-mouthed public servant they had met
delivering mail to Clothahump's tree several days ago.
The little canyon was neither very deep nor particularly narrow, but the houses
still crowded together like children in a dark room. The reason was economic;
it's simpler and cheaper to build a common wall for two separate structures.
A few flew pennants from poles set in their street-facing sides, or from the
crests of sharply gabled rooftops. They could have been family crests, or
signals, or advertisements; Jon-Tom had no idea. More readily identifiable
banners in the form of some extraordinary washing hung from lines strung over
narrow alleyways. He tried to identify the shape of the owners from the position
and length of the arms and legs, but was defeated by the variety.
At the moment furry arms and hands were working from upper-floor windows,
hastily pulling laundry off the lines amid much muttering and grumbling. Thunder
rumbled through the town, echoing off the cobblestone streets and the damp walls
of cut rock and thick wooden beams. Each building was constructed for solidity,
a small home put together as strongly as a castle.
Shutters clapped hollowly against bracings as dwellers sealed their residences
against the approaching storm. Smoke, ashy and pungent, borne by an occasional
confused gust of wet wind, drifted down to the man and otter. Another rumble
bounced through the streets. A glance overhead showed dark clouds clotting like
black cream. First raindrops slapped at his skin.
Mudge increased his pace and Jon-Tom hurried to keep up. He was too fascinated
by the town to ask where they were rushing to, sufficiently absorbed in his
surroundings not to notice the isolated stares of other hurrying pedestrians.
After another couple of blocks, he finally grew aware of the attention they were
drawing.
"It's your size, mate," Mudge told him.
As they hurried on, Jon-Tom took time to look back at the citizens staring at
him. None stood taller than Mudge. Most were between four and five feet tall. It
did not make him feel superior. Instead, he felt incredibly awkward and out of
place.
He drew equally curious stares from the occasional human he passed. All the
locals were similarly clad, allowing for personal differences in taste and
station. Silk, wool, cotton, and leather appeared to be the principal materials.
Shirts, blouses, vests, and pants were often decorated with beads and feathers.
An astonishing variety of hats were worn, from wide-brimmed
seventeenth-century-style feathered to tiny, simple berets, to feathered peaked
caps like Mudge's. Boots alternated with sandals on feet of varying size. He
later learned one had a choice between warm, filthy boots or chilly but easily
cleanable sandals.
Keeping clean could be a full-time trial. They crossed the main street just in
time to avoid a prestorm deluge when an irritable and whitened old possum dumped
out a bucket of slops from a second-floor porch into the central stream, barely
missing the pair below.
"Hey... watch it!" Jon-Tom shouted upward at the closing shutters.
"Now wot?"
"That wasn't very considerate," Jon-Tom mumbled, his nose twisting at the odor.
Mudge frowned at him. "Stranger and stranger sound your customs, guv. Now wot
else is she supposed t' do with the 'ouse'old night soil?" With a hand he traced
the winding course of the steady stream that flowed through the center of the
street.
"This time o' year it rains 'ere nigh every day. The rain washes the soil into
the central flue 'ere and the stream packs it off right proper."
Jon-Tom let out fervent thanks he hadn't appeared in this land in summertime.
"It wasn't her action I was yelling about. It was her aim. Damned if I don't
think she was trying to hit us."
Mudge smiled. "Now that be a thought, mate. But when you're as dried up and
'ousebound as that faded old sow, I expect you grab at every chance for
amusement you can."
"What about common courtesy?" Jon-Tom muttered, shaking slop from his shoes.
"Rely on it if you wants t' die young, says I."
Shouts sounded from ahead. They moved to one side of the street and leaned up
against a shuttered storefront. A huge double wagon was coming toward them, one
trailing behind another. The vehicle required nearly the entire width of the
street for passage.
Jon-Tom regarded it with interest. The haggard, dripping driver was a margay.
The little tiger cat's bright eyes flashed beneath the wide-brimmed floppy felt
hat he wore. Behind him, riding the second half of the wagon, was a cursing
squirrel no more than three feet tall His tail was curled over his head,
providing extra protection from the now steadily falling rain. He was struggling
to tug heavy canvas or leather sheets over the cargo of fruits and vegetables.
Four broad-shouldered lizards pulled the double wagon. They were colored
iridescent blue and green, and in the gloom their startlingly pink eyes shone
like motorcycle taillights. They swayed constantly from side to side, demanding
unvarying attention from their yowling, hissing driver, who manipulated them as
much with insults as with cracks from his long thin whip.
Momentarily generating a louder rumble than the isolated bursts of thunder, the
enormous wagon slid on past and turned a difficult far corner.
"I've no sympathy for the chap who doesn't know 'is business," snorted Mudge as
they continued on their way, hugging the sides of buildings in search of some
protection from the downpour. "That lot ought long since to 'ave been under