cover."
It was raining quite heavily now. Most of the windows had been closed or
shuttered. The darkness made the buildings appear to be leaning over the street.
From above and behind came a distant, sharp chirping. Jon-Tom glanced over a
shoulder, thought he saw a stellar jay clad in yellow-purple kilt and vest
alight on one of the fourth-floor landing posts and squeeze through an opening.
There was a faint thump as the circular door was slammed behind him.
They hurried on, sprinting from one rickety wooden porch covering to the next.
Once they paused in the sheltering lee of what might have been a bookstore.
Scrollstore, rather, since it was filled with ceiling-high wooden shelves
punched out like a massive wine rack. Each hole held its thick roll of paper.
As Mudge had indicated, the rain was washing the filth from the cobblestones and
the now swollen central creek carried it efficiently away.
The front moved through and the thunder faded. Instead of the heavy, driving
rain the clouds settled down to shedding a steady drizzle. The temperature had
dropped, and Jon-Tom shivered in his drenched T-shirt and jeans.
"Begging your pardon, sir."
Jon-Tom uncrossed his arms. "What?" He looked to his right. The source of the
voice was in a narrow alley barely large enough to allow two people to pass
without turning sideways.
A gibbon lay huddled beneath a slight overhang, curled protectively against
several large wooden barrels filled with trash. His fuzzy face was shielded by
several large scraps of wrapping paper that had been wound together and tied
with a knot beneath his chin. This crude hat hung limp in the rain. Badly ripped
trousers of some thin cotton material covered the hairy legs. He had no shirt.
Long arms enfolded the shivering chest, and large circular sores showed where
the hair had fallen out. One eye socket was a dark little hollow.
A delicately fingered hand extended hopefully in Jon-Tom's direction. "A
silverpiece, sir. For one unlucky in war and unluckier still in peacetime? It
was a bad upbringing and a misinformed judiciary that cost me this eye, sir. Now
I exist only on the sufferance of others." Jon-Tom stood and gaped at the
pitiful creature.
"A few coppers then, sir, if you've no silver to give?" The gibbon's voice was
harsh with infection.
Suddenly he shrank back, falling against the protective trashcans. One fell
over, spilling shreds of paper, bones, and other recognizable detritus into the
alley. Dimensional dislocation does not eliminate the universality of garbage.
"Nay, sir, nay!" An arm shook as the simian held it across his face. "I meant no
harm."
Mudge stood alongside Jon-Tom. The otter's sword was halfway clear of its chest
scabbard. "I'll not 'ave you botherin' this gentleman while 'e's in my care!" He
took another step toward the ruined anthropoid. "Maybe you mean no 'arm and
maybe you do, but you'll do none while I'm about."
"Take it easy," murmured Jon-Tom, eyeing the cowering gibbon sympathetically.
"Can't you see he's sick?"
"Sick be the word, aright. D'you not know 'ow to treat beggars, mate?" He pulled
on his sword. The gibbon let out a low moan.
"I do." Jon-Tom reached into his pocket, felt for the small linen purse
Clothahump had given him. He withdrew a small coin, tossed it to the gibbon. The
simian scrambled among the stones and trash for it.
"Blessings on you, sir! Heaven kiss you!"
Mudge turned away, disgustedly sliding his sword back in place. "Waste o'
money." He put a hand on Jon-Tom's arm. "Come on, then. Let's get you t' the
shop I 'ave in mind before you spend yourself broke. It's a hard world, mate,
and you'd better learn that soonest. You never saw the blighter's knife, I take
it?"
"Knife?" Jon-Tom looked back toward the alley entrance. "What knife?" He felt
queasy.
48
"Aye, wot knife indeed." He let out a sharp squeek. "If I 'adn't of been with
you you'd 'ave found out wot knife. But I guess you can't 'elp yourself. Your
brains bein' up that 'igh, I expect they thin along with the air, wot? 'Wot
knife'... pfagh!" He stopped, glared up at the dazed Jon-Tom.
"Now if 'twere just up t' me, mate, I'd let you make as much the idiot of
yourself as you seem to 'ave a mind t'. But I can't risk offendin' 'is
wizardship, see? So until I've seen you safely set up in the world and on your
own way t' where I think you might be able t' take some care for yourself,
you'll do me the courtesy from now on o' takin' me advice. And if you'll not
think o' yourself, then 'ave some pity for me. Mind the threats that Clothahump
put on me." He shook his head, turned, and started on down the street again.
"Me! Who was unlucky enough to trip over you when you tripped into my day."
"Yeah? What about me, then? You think I like it here? You think I like you, you
fuzz-faced little fart?"
To Jon-Tom's dismay, Mudge smiled instead of going for his sword. "Now that's
more like it, mate! That's a better attitude than givin' away your money." He
spat back in the direction of the alley. "God-rotted stinkin' layabout trash as
soon split your gut as piss on you. D'you wonder I like it better in the forest,
mate?"
They turned off the main street into a side avenue that was not as small as an
alley, not impressive enough to be a genuine street. It boasted half a dozen
shopfronts huddled together in the throat of a long cul-de-sac. A single tall
oil lamp illuminated the street. Cloth awnings almost met over the street,
shutting out much of the lamplight as well as the rain. A miniature version of
the central stream sprang from a stone fountain at the end of the cul-de-sac.
Jon-Tom shook water from his hands, and squeezed it from his long hair as he
ducked under the cover of one awning. It was not designed to shield someone of
his height. He stared at the sign over the large front window of the shop. It
was almost comprehensible. Perhaps the longer he spent here the more acclimated
his brain became. In any case, he did not have to understand the lettering to
know what kind of shop this was. The window was filled with vests and shirts,
elaborately stitched pantaloons, and a pair of trousers with bells running the
length of the seams. Some lay on the window counter, others fitted dressmaker
dummies that sometimes boasted ears and usually had tails.
A bell chimed brightly as Mudge pushed open the door. "Mind your 'ead now,
Jon-Tom." His tall companion took note of the warning, and bowed under the eave.
The interior of the shop had the smell of leather and lavender. There was no one
in sight. Several chairs with curved seats and backs were arranged neatly near
the center of the floor. Long poles supported cross-racks from which clothing
had been draped.
"Hoy, Proprietor!" Mudged whooped. "Show yourself and your work!"
"And work you shall have, my dear whoever-you-ares." The reply issued from the
back of the shop. "Work only of the finest quality and best stitchery, of the
toughest materials and prettiest..." The voice trailed off quickly.
The fox had come to a halt and was staring past Mudge at the dripping, lanky
shape of Jon-Tom. Silk slippers clad the owner's feet. He wore a silk dressing
gown with four matching ribbons of bright I aquamarine. They ran around his tail
in intersecting loops to meet in a bow at the white tip. He also wore a more
practical-looking belt from which protruded rulers, marking sticks, several
pieces of dark green stone, and various other instruments of the tailor's craft.
He spoke very deliberately.