Though he was no longer hungry, Jon-Tom sampled one, soon found himself
shoveling them in as fast as possible. Despite their heavy appearance they were
light and airy inside, full of honey and chopped nuts and encrusted with burnt
cinnamon.
Later he leaned back in the short chair and picked at his teeth with a splinter
of the table, as he'd seen some of the other patrons doing.
"Well, that may take the last of our money, but that's the best meal I've had in
years."
"Aye, not bad." Mudge had his short legs up on the table, the boot heels resting
indifferently in the pastry tray.
A band had begun playing somewhere. The music was at once light and brassy.
Jon-Tom took a brief professional interest in it. Since he couldn't see the
players, he had to be satisfied with deciding that they employed one or two
string instruments, drums, chimes, and a couple of oddly deep flutes.
Mudge was leaning across the table, feeling warm and serious. He put a
cautionary paw on Jon-Tom's wrist. "Sorry t' shatter your contentment, mate, but
we've somethin' else t' talk on. Clothahump charged me with seein' t' your
well-bein' and I've a mind t' see the job through t' the end.
"If you want t' continue eatin' like that, we're goin' to 'ave t' find you some
way t' make a living, wot...?"
V
Reality churned in Jon-Tom's stomach, mixed unpleasantly with the pastry. "Uh,
can't we just go back to Clothahump?" He'd decided he was beginning to like this
world.
Mudge shook his head slowly. "Not if 'e don't get that gold spell aright. Keep
in mind that as nice and kindly as the old bugger seemed a few days ago, wizards
can be god-rotted temperamental. If we go back already and pester 'im for money,
'e's not going t' feel much proud o' you. Not to mention wot 'is opinion o' me
would be. You want to keep the old twit feelin' responsible for wot 'e's done t'
you, mate.
"Oh, 'e might 'ave a fair supply of silver tucked away neat and pretty
somewhere. But 'is supply of silver's bound to be limited. So long as 'e's got
'is feeble old mind set on this dotty crisis of 'is, 'e's not goin' to be doin'
much business. No business, no silver. No silver, no 'andouts, right? I'm afraid
you're goin't' 'ave t' go t' work."
"I see." Jon-Tom stared morosely into his empty mug. "What about working with
you, Mudge?"
"Now don't get me wrong, mate. I'm just gettin' t' where I can tol'rate your
company."
"Thanks," said Jon-Tom tartly.
"That's all right, it is. But huntin's a solitary profession. I don't think I
could do much for you there. You don't strike me as the type o' chap who knows
'is way 'round a woods. You'd as soon trip over a trap as set one, I think."
"I won't deny that I feel more at home around books, or a basketball court."
"Otherworldly sports won't do you ant's piss good 'round 'ere, lad. As far as
the learnin' part of it... wot was it then you were acquiring?"
"I'm into prelaw, Mudge."
"Ah, a barrister-t'-be, is it? Never 'ad much use for the species meself," he
added, not caring what Jon-Tom might think of his detrimental opinions of the
legal profession. "Wot did you study besides the law itself, for the laws 'ere
as you might imagine are likely a mite different from those o' your own."
"History, government... I don't guess they'd be much use here either."
"I suppose we might get you apprenticed to some local barrister," Mudge
considered. He scratched the inside of one ear, moved around to work on the
back. "I don't know, mate. You certain there's nothin' else? You ever work a
forge, build furniture? Do metalwork, build a house, cure meat... anythin'
useful?"
"Not really." Jon-Tom felt uncomfortable.
"Huh!" The otter let loose a contemptuous whistle. "Fine life you've led for a
so-called wizard."
"That's Clothahump's mistake," Jon-Tom protested. "I never claimed to be that.
I've never claimed to be anything other than what I am."
"Which don't appear to be much, as far as placin' you's concerned. Nothin' more
in the way of skills, is it?"
"Well..." Another ambition flooded through him. With it came the laughs of his
friends and the condemnations and horrified protests of his family. Then they
were drowned by a vision of himself with a guitar and by the memories of all the
groups, all the performances he'd collected and mimicked in his less
intellectual, more emotional moments of introspection. Memories and sounds of
Zepplin and Harum, of Deep Purple and Tangerine Dream and Moody Blues and a
thousand others. Electric melodies tingled in his fingertips. Logic and reason
vanished. Once more good sense and truth clashed within him.
Only here good sense did not serve. Heart's desire again took control of him.
"I play a g... an electric bass. It's a kind of a stringed instrument. It's only
a hobby. I thought once I might try to make a career out of it, only..."
"So you're a musician then!" Consternation vanished as understanding filled the
otter. He pushed back his chair, let his feet down on the floor, and stared with
new interest at his companion. "A minstrel. I'll be bloody be-damned. Aye, there
might be a way there for you t' make some coppers, maybe even some silver. You'd
be a novelty, anyways. Let me 'ear you sing something."
"Right here?" Jon-Tom looked around nervously.
"Aye. No one's goin' to 'ear you anyway. Not between the babble and band."
"I don't know." Jon-Tom considered. "I need to warm up. And I don't have my
guitar with me."
"A pox on your bleedin' instrument," growled the otter. " 'Ow do you expect t'
act a proper minstrel if you can't sing on demand, when someone requires it o'
you? Now don't mind me, mate. Get on with it." He sat expectantly, looked
genuinely intrigued.
Jon-Tom cleared his throat self-consciously and looked around. No one was paying
him the least attention. He took a fortifying swallow from Mudge's mug and
considered. Damn silly, he thought. Oh well, best try an old favorite, and he
began "Eleanor Rigby." Am I one of all the lonely people now? he thought as he
voiced the song.
When he'd finished, he looked anxiously at the otter. Mudge's expression was
fixed.
"Well? How was I?"
Mudge leaned back in his seat, smiled faintly. "Maybe you were right, Jon-Tom.
Maybe it 'twould be better with some instrumental accompaniment. Interestin'
words, I'll grant you that. I once knew a chap who kept several faces in jars,
though 'e didn't 'ave 'em up by 'is door."
Jon-Tom tried not to show his disappointment, though why he should have expected
a different reaction from the otter than from previous audiences he couldn't
imagine.
"I'm really much more of an instrumentalist. As far as voice goes," he added
defensively, "maybe I'm not smooth, but I'm enthusiastic."
"That's so, mate, but I'm not so sure your listeners would be. I'll try t' think
on what else you might do. But for now, I think maybe it would be a kindness t'
forget about any minstrelin'."
"Well, I'm not helpless." Jon-Tom gestured around them. "I don't want to keep
imposing on you, Mudge. Take this place. I'm not afraid of hard work. There must
be hundreds of mugs and platters to wash and floors to be mopped down, tables to
be cleaned, drains to be scoured. There's a helluva lot of work here. I
could..."
Mudge reached across the table and had both paws digging into Jon-Tom's indigo
shirt. He stared up into the other's surprise and whispered intently.
"You can't do that! That's work for mice and rats. Don't let anyone 'ear you