making pulp of his face. His peers applauded enthusiastically, offering
suggestions for further disfigurement.
"A way of life, mate?" Mudge said thoughtfully when Jon-Tom broached his
thoughts. "I wouldn't know. I'm no philosopher, now. But I know this. You can be
polite and dead or respected and breathin'." He shrugged. "Now you can make your
own choice. Just don't be too ready to put aside that nice new toy you've
bought."
Jon-Tom made sure he had a good grip on the staff. The increasing crowd and
lifting of the fog brought fresh stares. Mudge assured him it was only on
account of his unusual size. If anything, he was now clad far better than the
average citizen of Lynchbany Towne.
Five minutes later he was no longer simply hungry, he was ravenous.
"Not much longer, mate." They turned down a winding side street. There was an
almost hidden entrance on their left, into which Mudge urged him. Once again he
had to bend nearly double to clear the overhang.
Then he was able to stand. The ceiling inside was a good two feet above his
head, for which he was more than slightly grateful.
"The Pearl Possum," said Mudge, with considerably more enthusiasm than he'd
displayed toward anything else so far. "Me, I'm for somethin' liquid now. This
way, mate. 'Ware the lamps."
Jon-Tom followed the otter into the bowels of the restaurant, elbowing his way
through the shoving, tightly packed crowd and keeping a lookout for the
occasional hanging lamps Mudge had warned him about. From outside there was no
hint of the considerable, sweaty mob milling inside.
Eight feet inside the entrance, the ceiling curved upward like a circus tent. It
peaked a good two and a half stories above the floor. Beneath this central
height was a circular counter dispensing food and brew. It was manned by a small
battalion of cooks and mixolo-gists. A couple were weasels. There was also a
single, nattily dressed rabbit and one scroungy-looking bat, smaller and even
uglier than Pog. Not surprisingly, the bat spent most of his time delivering
food and drink to various tables. Jon-Tom knew of other restaurants which would
have been glad of an arboreal waiter.
What tables there were spotted the floor like fat toadstools in no particular
order. On the far side of the Pearl Possum were partially enclosed booths
designed for discussion or dalliance, depending on the inclination of the
inhabitants.
They continued to make their way through the noisy, malodorous crowd. Isolated
ponds of liquor littered the floor, along with several splinters from smashed
wooden mugs. The owners had sensibly disdained the use of glass. Numerous drains
pockmarked the wooden planking underfoot. Occasionally someone would appear with
a bucket of water to wash down a section of floor too slippery with booze,
sometimes of the partially digested variety.
He was easily the tallest man--the tallest animal--in the room, though there
were a couple of large wolves and cats who were built more massively. It made
him feel only a little more confident.
" 'Ere lad, over 'ere!" Following the triumphant shout Jon-Tom felt himself
yanked down to a small but abandoned table. His knees pressed up toward his
chest-the chairs were much too low for comfortable seating.
Furry bodies pressed close on all sides, filling his nostrils with the stink of
liquor and musk. Supporting the table was the sculpted plaster figure of a
coquettishly posed female opposum. It had been scratched and engraved with so
many lewd comments that the sheen was almost gone.
Somehow a waiter noticed that their hands and table were empty, shoved his way
through to them. Like the armorer he was wearing an apron, only this one was
filthy beyond recognition, the pattern beneath obliterated by grease and other
stains. Like the armorer he was a black-masked raccoon. One ear was badly
mangled, and a white scar ran boldly from the ear down the side of his head,
just past the eye, and on through the muzzle, but particularly noticeable where
it crossed the black mask.
Jon-Tom was too busy observing the life and action swirling around them to
notice that Mudge had already ordered.
"Not t' worry, mate. I ordered for you."
"I hope you ordered food, as well as liquor. I'm hungrier than ever."
"That I 'ave, mate. Any fool knows 'tis not good t' drink on an empty belly.
'Ere you, watch yourself." He jabbed an elbow into the ribs of the drunken
ocelot who'd stumbled into him.
The animal spun, waving his mug and sending liquor spilling toward the otter.
Mudge dodged the drink with exceptional speed. The feline made a few yowling
comments about the rib jab, but was too sloshed to pick a serious fight. It
lurched helplessly off into the crowd. Jon-Tom followed the pointy, weaving ears
until their owner was out of sight.
Two large wooden mugs of something highly carbonated and smelling of alcohol
arrived. The hardwood mug looked oversized in Mudge's tiny hand, but it was just
the right size for Jon-Tom. He tried a sip of the black liquid within, found it
to be a powerful fermented brew something like a highly alcoholic malt liquor.
He determined to treat it respectfully.
The waiter's other hand deposited a large platter covered by a badly dented and
scratched metal dome. When the dome was removed, Jon-Tom's nose was assailed by
a wonderfully rich aroma. On the platter were all kinds of vegetables. Among
strange shapes were comfortingly familiar carrots, radishes, celery, and tiny
onions. A raft of potatoes supported a huge cylindrical roast. A single center
bone showed at either end. It was burnt black outside and shaded to pink near
the bone.
He hunted in vain for silverware. Mudge pointed out that the restaurant would
hardly provide instruments for its patrons to use on one another. The otter had
a hunting knife out. It was short and triangular like the tooth of a white shark
and went easily through the meat.
"Rare, medium, or well burnt?" was the question.
"Anything." Jon-Tom fought to keep the saliva inside his mouth. Mudge sliced off
two respectable discs of meat, passed one to his companion.
They ate as quietly as smacking fingers and gravy-slick lips would permit.
Jon-Tom struggled to keep the juice off his freshly cut clothes. Mudge was not
nearly so fastidious. Gravy ran down his furry chin onto his vest, was sopped up
by vest and chest fur.
They were halfway full when a partially sated Jon-Tom relaxed long enough to
notice that in addition to the center bone running through the roast, there were
thin, curving ribs running from the bone to meet like the points of calipers
near the bottom.
"Mudge, what kind of meat is this?"
"Not tasty enough, mate?" wondered the otter around a mouthful of vegetables.
"It's delicious, but I don't recognize the cut or the flavor. It's not any kind
of steak, is it? I mean, beef?"
"Beef? You mean, cattle?" Mudge shook his head. "They may not be smart, but
we're not cannibals 'ere, we're not." He chewed ap-praisingly. "O' course, it
ain't king snake. Python. Reticulated, I'd say."
"Wonderful." Why be squeamish in the face of good taste, Jon-Tom mused. There
was no reason to be. He never had understood the phobia some folk had about
eating reptile, though he'd never had the opportunity to try it before. After
all, meat was meat. It was all muscle fiber to the tooth.
He did not think he'd care to meet a snake of that size away from the dinner
plate, however.
They were dismembering the last of the roast when the waiter, unbidden, appeared
with a small tray of some fat puff pastries seared black across their crowns.