"What... is that?" He gestured hesitantly at Jon-Tom.
"That's the work we're chattin' about, and a job it's goin' t' be, I'd wager."
Mudge flopped down in one of the low-slung chairs with complete disregard for
the upholstery and the fact that he was dripping wet. He put both short legs
over one arm of the chair and pushed his feathered cap back on his forehead.
"Off to it now, that's a good fellow."
The fox put both paws on hips and stared intently at the otter. "I do not clothe
monsters! I have created attire for some of the best-dressed citizens of
Lynchbany, and beyond. I have made clothing for Madam Scorianza and her best
girls, for the banker Flaustyn Wolfe, for members of the town council, and for
our most prominent merchants and craftsmen, but I do not clothe monsters."
Mudge leaned over in the chair and helped himself to a long thin stick from a
nearby tall glass filled with them. "Look on it as a challenge, mate." He used a
tiny flinted sparker to light the stick.
"Listen," said Jon-Tom, "I don't want to cause any trouble." The fox took a wary
step backward as that towering form moved nearer. "Mudge here thinks that...
that..." He was indicating the otter, who was puffing contentedly on the thin
stick. Smoke filled the room with a delightfully familiar aroma.
"Say," said Jon-Tom, "do you suppose I could have one of those, uh, sticks?"
"For the convenience o' the customers, lad." Mudge magnanimously passed over a
stick along with his sparker. Jon-Tom couldn't see how it worked, but at this
point was more than willing to believe it had been treated with a good fire
spell.
Several long puffs on the glowing stick more than relaxed him. Not everything in
this world was as horrible as it seemed, he decided. It was smoking that had
made him accessible to the questing thoughts of Clothahump. Perhaps smoking
would let something send him home.
Ten minutes later, he no longer cared. Reassured by both Mudge and the giant's
dreamy responses, the grumbling fox was measuring Jon-Tom as the latter lay
quite contentedly on the carpeted floor. Mudge lay next to him, the two of them
considerably higher mentally than physically. The tailor, whose name was
Carlemot, did not objeet to their puffing, which indicated either an ample
supply of the powerful smokesticks or a fine sense of public relations, or both.
He left them eventually, returning several hours later to find otter and man
totally bombed. They still lay on the floor, and were currently speculating with
great interest on the intricacies of the worm-holes in the wooden ceiling.
It was only later that Jon-Tom had recovered sufficiently for a dressing. When
he finally saw himself in the mirror, the shock shoved aside quite a bit of the
haze.
The indigo silk shirt felt like cool mist against his skin. It was tucked neatly
into straight-legged pants which were a cross between denim and flannel. Both
pants and shirt were secured with matching buttons of black leather. The jet
leather vest was fringed around the bottom and decorated with glass beadwork.
The cuffs of the pants were likewise fringed, though he couldn't tell this at
first because they were stuffed into calf-high black leather boots with rolled
tops. At first it seemed surprising that the tailor had managed to find any
footgear at all to fit him, considering how much larger he was than the average
local human. Then it occurred to him that many of the inhabitants were likely to
have feet larger in proportion to their bodies than did men.
A belt of metal links, silver or pewter, held up the pants, shone in sharp
contrast to the beautifully iridescent hip-length cape of some green lizard
leather. A pair of delicate but functional silver clips held the cape together
at the collar.
Despite Mudge's insistence, however, he categorically refused to don the orange
tricornered cap. "I just don't like hats."
"Such a pity." Carlemot's attitude had shifted from one of distress to one of
considerable pride. "It really is necessary to complete the overall effect,
which, if I may be permitted to say so, is striking as well as unique."
Jon-Tom turned, watched the scales of the cape flare even in the dim light.
"Sure as hell would turn heads in L.A."
"Not bad," Mudge conceded. "Almost worth the price."
" 'Almost' indeed!" The fox was pacing round Jon-Tom, inspecting the costume for
any defects or tears. Once he paused to snip a loose thread from a sleeve of the
shirt. "It is subdued yet flashy, attention-gathering without being obtrusive."
He smiled, displaying sharp teeth in a long narrow snout.
"The man looks like a noble, or better still, a banker. When one is confronted
with so much territory to cover, the task is at first daunting. However, the
more one has to work with, the more gratifying the end results. Never mind this
plebian, my tall friend," the fox continued, gazing up possessively at Jon-Tom,
"what is your opinion?"
"I like it. Especially the cape." He spun a small circle, nearly fell down but
recovered poise and balance nicely. "I always wanted to wear a cape."
"I am pleased." The tailor appeared to be waiting for something, coughed
delicately.
"Crikey, mate," snapped Mudge, "pay the fellow."
Some good-natured haggling followed, with Mudge's task made the more difficult
by the fact that Jon-Tom kept siding with the tailor. A reasonable balance was
still struck, since Carlemot's natural tendency to drive a hard bargain was
somewhat muted by the pleasure he'd received from accomplishing so difficult a
job.
That did not keep Mudge from chastising Jon-Tom as they left the shop behind.
The drizzle had become a heavy mist around them.
"Mate, I can't save you much if you're goin' t' take the side of the
shopkeeper."
"Don't worry about it." For the first time in a long while, he was feeling
almost happy. Between the lingering effects of the smoke session and the gallant
appearance he was positive his new attire gave him, his mood was downright
expansive. "It was a tough task for him and he did a helluva job. I don't
begrudge him the money. Besides," he jingled the purse in his pocket, "we still
have some left."
"That's good, because we've one more stop t' make."
"Another?" Jon-Tom frowned. "I don't need any more clothing."
"That so? Far as I'm concerned, mate, you're walkin' around bloody naked." He
turned right. They passed four or five storefronts on the wide street, crossed
the cobblestones and a little bridge arcing over the central stream, and entered
another shop.
It possessed an entirely different ambiance from the warm tailor shop they'd
just left. While the fox's establishment had been spotless, soft-looking, and
comfortable as an old den, this one was chill with an air of distasteful
business.
One entire wall was speckled with devices designed for throwing. There were
dozens of knives; ellipsoidal, stiletto, triangular, with or without blood
gutters grooved nastily in their flanks, gem-encrusted little pig-stickers for
argumentative ladies, trick knives concealed in eyeglass cases or boot soles...
all the deadly variety of which the honer was capable.
Throwing stars shone in the lamplight like decorations plucked from the devil's
Christmas tree. A spiked bolo hung from an intricate halberd. Maces and nunchaku
alternated wall space with spears and shields, pikes and war axes. Near the back
of the shop were the finer weapons, long bows and swords with more variety of
handle (to fit many different size and shape of hand) than of blade. One
particularly ugly half-sword looked more like a double scythe. It was easy to