envision the damage it could do when wielded by a knowledgeable arm. That of a
gibbon with a deceptive reach, for example.
Some of the swords and throwing knives had grooved or hollow handles. Jon-Tom
was at a loss to imagine what sort of creature they'd been designed for until he
remembered the birds. A hand would not make much use of such grips, but they
were perfect for, say, a flexible wing tip.
For a few high moments he'd managed to forget that this was a world of
established violence and quick death. He leaned over the counter barring the
back of the shop from the front and studied something that resembled a
razor-edged frisbee. He shuddered, and looked around for Mudge.
The otter had moved around the counter and had vanished behind a bamboolike
screen. When Jon-Tom thought to call to him, he was already returning, chatting
with the owner. The squat, muscular raccoon wore only an apron, sandals, and a
red headband with two feathers sticking downward past his left ear. He smelled,
as did the back of the shop, of coalsmoke and steel.
"So this is the one who wants the mayhem?" The raccoon pursed his lips, looked
over a black nose at Jon-Tom.
"Mudge, I don't know about this. I've always been a talker, not a fighter."
"I understand, mate," said the otter amiably. "But there are weighty arguments
and there are weighty arguments." He hefted a large mace to further illustrate
his point. "Leastways, you don't have to employ none of these tickle-me-tights,
but you bloody well better show something or you'll mark yourself an easy
target.
"Now, can you use any of these toys?"
Jon-Tom examined the bewildering array of dismembering machinery. "I don't..."
he shook his head, looking confused.
The armorer stepped in. "Tis plain to see he's no experience." His tone was
reproving but patient. "Let me see, now. With his size and reach..." He moved
thoughtfully to a wall where pikes and spears grew like iron wheat from the
floor, each set in its individual socket in the wooden planks. His right paw
rubbed at his nose.
With both hands he removed an ax with a blade the size of his head. "Where skill
and subtlety are absent, mayhap it would be best to make use of the other
extremes. No combat or weapons training at all, young lad?"
Jon-Tom shook his head, looked unencouraging.
"What about sports?"
"I'm not bad at basketball. Pretty good jump shot, and I can--"
"Shit!" Mudge kicked at the floor. "What the devil's arse is that? Does it
perhaps involve some hittin'?" he asked hopefully.
"Not much," Jon-Tom admitted. "Mostly running and jumping, quick movements...."
"Well, that be something," Mudge faced the armorer. "Something less bull-bright
than that meat cleaver you're holdin', then. What would you recommend?"
"A fast retreat." The armorer turned dourly to another rack, preening his
whiskers. "Though if the man can lay honest claim to some nimbleness, there
ought to be something." He put up the massive ax. "Mayhap we can give him some
help."
He removed what looked like a simple spear, made from the polished limb of a
tree. But instead of a spearpoint, the upper end widened into a thick wooden
knob with bumps and dull points. It was taller than Mudge and reached Jon-Tom's
ears, the shaft some two inches in diameter.
"Just a club?" Mudge studied the weapon uncertainly.
"Tis the longest thing I've got in the shop." The armorer dragged a clipped nail
down the shaft. "This is ramwood. It won't snap in a fight. With your friend's
long reach, he can use it to fend an opponent off if he's not much interested in
properly disposing of him. And if things get tight and he's still blood-shy,
why, a good clop on the head with the business end of this will make someone
just as dead as if you'd split his skull. Not as messy as the ax, but just as
effective." He handed it to the reluctant Jon-Tom.
"It'll make you a fine walking stick, too, man. And there's something else. I
mentioned giving you some help." He pointed at the middle of the staff. Halfway
up the shaft were two bands of inlaid silver three inches apart. The space
between was decorated with four silver studs.
"Press any one of those, man."
Jon-Tom did so. There was a click, and the staff instantly grew another foot.
Twelve inches of steel spike now projected from the base of the staff. Jon-Tom
was so surprised he almost dropped the weapon, but Mudge danced about like a kid
in a candy shop.
"Bugger me mother if that ain't a proper surprise for any discourteous dumb-butt
you might meet in the street. A little rub from that'll cure 'em right quick, I
venture!"
"Aye," agreed the armorer with pride. "Just tap 'em on the toe and press your
release and I guarantee you'll see one fine wide-eyed expression." Both raccoon
and otter shook with amusement.
Jon-Tom pushed down on the shaft and the spear-spike retracted like a cats-claw
up inside the staff. Another experimental grip on the studs, and it shot out
once more. It was clever, but certainly not amusing.
"Listen, I'd rather not fool with this thing at all, but if you insist..."
"I do." Mudge stopped laughing, wiped tears from his eyes. "I do insist. Like
the master armorer 'ere says, you don't 'ave t' use that toe-chopper if you've
no mind t', but there'll likely be times when you'll want t' keep some
sword-swingin' sot a fair few feet from your guts. So take claim to it and be
glad."
Jon-Tom hefted the shaft, but he wasn't glad. Merely having possession of the
deceptive weapon was depressing him.
Outside they examined the contents of the little purse. It was nearly empty. A
few small silver coins gleamed forlornly like fish in a dark tank from the
bottom of the sack. Jon-Tom wondered if he hadn't been slightly profligate with
Clothahump's generosity.
Mudge appraised the remnants of their fortune. Mist continued to dampen them,
softening the lamplight that buttered the street and shopfronts. With the easing
of the rain, other pedestrians had reappeared. Animal shadow-shapes moved dimly
through the fog.
"Hungry, mate?" asked the otter finally, black eyes shining in the light.
"Starving!" He was abruptly aware he hadn't had a thing to eat all day. Mudge's
store of jerked meat had given out the previous evening.
"I also." He clapped Jon-Tom on his cape. "Now you looks almost like a real
person." He leaned conspiratorially close. "Now I know a place where the silver
we 'ave left will bring us as fat a feast as a pregnant hare could wish. Maybe
even enough t' fill your attenuated belly-hollow!" He winked. "Maybe some
entertainment besides. You and I 'ave done our duty for the day, we 'ave."
As they strolled further into town, they encountered more pedestrians. An
occasional wagon jounced down the street, and individuals on saddled riding
lizards hopped or ran past. Long pushbrooms came into play as shopkeepers swept
water from porches and storefronts. Shutters snapped open. For the first time
Jon-Tom heard the wails of children. Cubs would be the better term, he corrected
himself.
Two young squirrels scampered by. One finally tackled the other. They tumbled to
the cobblestones, rolling over and over, punching and kicking while a small mob
of other youngsters gathered around and urged them on. To Jon-Tom's dismay their
initial cuteness was muted by the manner in which they gouged and scratched at
each other. Not that his own hometown was devoid of violence, but it seemed to
be a way of life here. One cub finally got the other down and was assiduously