talk like that, Jon-Tom." He let go of the silk and sat back in his chair.
"Come on now," Jon-Tom protested softly. "Work is work."
"Think you that now?" Mudge pointed to his right.
Two tables away from theirs was a rat about three feet tall. He was dressed in
overalls sewn from some heavy, thick material that was badly stained and
darkened. Thick gloves covered tiny paws, and knee-high boots rested on the
floor as the rodent scrubbed at the planking.
The others nearby completely ignored his presence, dropping bones or other
garbage nearby or sometimes onto his back. As Jon-Tom watched, the rodent
accidentally stumbled across the leg of a drunken gull hunting a table with
perches to accommodate ornithological clients. The big bird cocked a glazed eye
at him and snapped once with its beak, more taunting than threatening.
Stumbling clear, the rat fell backward, tripped over his own feet, and brought
his bucket of trash and goo down on himself. It ran down his boots and over the
protective overalls. For a moment he lay stunned in the heap of garbage. Then he
slowly struggled to his knees and began silently gathering it up again, ignoring
but not necessarily oblivious to the catcalls and insults the patrons heaped on
him. A thick bone bounced off his neck, and he gathered it up along with the
rest of the debris. Soon the watchers grew bored with the momentary diversion
and returned to their drinking, eating, and arguing.
"Only rats and mice do that kind of work?" Jon-Tom inquired. "I used to do
something like it all the time. Remember, that's what confused Clothahump into
bringing me here in the first place."
"What you do elsewhere you'd best not try 'ere, mate. Any self-respectin' animal
would sooner starve before doin' that, or go t' beggin' like our sticker-hiding
friend, the gibbon."
"I don't understand any of this, Mudge."
"Don't try t', mate. Just roll with the waves, wot? Besides, those types are
naturally lazy and dumb. They'd rather lie about and guzzle cheese all day than
do any honest work, they would. Spend all their time when not eatin' in
indiscriminate screwing, though you wouldn't think they'd 'ave enough brains t'
know which end to work with."
Jon-Tom was fighting to control his temper. "There's nothing wrong with doing
menial work. It doesn't make those who do it menial-minded. I..." He sighed,
wondered at the hopelessness of it all. "I guess I just thought things would be
different here, as far as that kind of thing goes. It's my fault. I was
imagining a world that doesn't exist."
Mudge laughed. "Little while back I recall you insistin' that this one didn't
exist."
"Oh, it exists all right." His fists rubbed angrily on the table as he watched
the subservient rat suddenly go down on his chest. A turtle with a disposition
considerably less refined than Clothahump's had stuck out a stubby leg and
tripped the unfortunate rodent. Once more the laboriously gathered garbage went
flying while a new burst of merriment flared from the onlookers.
"Why discrimination like that here?" Jon-Tom muttered. "Why here too?"
"Discrimination?" Mudge seemed confused. "Nobody discriminates against 'em.
That's all they're good for. Can't argue with natural law, mate."
Jon-Tom had expected more from Mudge, though he'd no real reason to. From what
he'd already seen, the otter was no worse than the average inhabitant of this
stinking, backward nonparadise.
There were a number of humans scattered throughout the restaurant. None came
near approaching Jon-Tom in height. Nearby a single older gentleman was drinking
and playing cards with a spider monkey dressed in black shot through with silver
thread. They paired off against a larger simian Jon-Tom couldn't identify and a
three-foot-tall pocket gopher wearing a crimson jumpsuit and the darkest
sunglasses Jon-Tom had ever seen.
No doubt they were as prejudiced and bigoted as the others. And where did he
come off setting himself up as arbiter of another world's morals?
"There ain't nothin' you can do about it, mate. Why would anyone want t' change
things? Cor now, moppin' and sweepin' and such are out, unless you want t' lose
all respeet due a regular citizen. Politickin' you're also qualified for, but
that o' course ranks even lower than janitorial-type drudgeryin'. I'd hope you
won't 'ave t' fall back on your abilities for minstrelin'." His tone changed to
one of hope mixed with curiosity.
"Now ol' Clothahump, 'e was bloody well sure you were some sort of sorcerer, 'e
was. You sure you can't work no magic? I 'eard you questioning 'is wizard-wart's
own special words."
"That was just curiosity, Mudge. Some of the words were familiar. But not in the
way he used them. Even you did the business with the dancing pins. Does everyone
practice magic around here?"
"Oh, everyone practices, all right." Mudge swilled down a snootful of black
brew. "But few get good enough at it to do much more than a trick or two. Pins
are my limit, I'm afraid. Wish to 'ell I knew 'is gold spell." His gaze suddenly
moved left and he grinned broadly.
"Course now, when the situation arises I ain't too bad at certain forms o'
levitation." His right hand moved with the speed of which only otters are
capable.
How the saucily dressed and heavily made up chipmunk managed to keep from
dumping the contents of the six tankards she was maneuvering through the crowd
was a bit of magic in itself, Jon-Tom thought as he ducked to avoid the few
flying suds.
She turned an outraged look on the innocent-seeming Mudge. "You keep your hands
to yourself, you shit-eating son of a mud worm! Next time you'll get one of
these up your furry backside!" She threatened him with a tankard.
"Now Lily," Mudge protested, " 'aven't you always told me you're always 'untin'
for a way t' move up in the world?"
She started to swing an armful of liquor at him and he cowered away in mock
fear, covering his face with his paws and still smiling. Then she thought better
of wasting the brew. Turning from their table she marched away, elbowing a path
through the crowd. Her tail switched prettily from side to side, the short dress
barely reaching from waist to knee. It was gold with a gray lining that neatly
set off her own attractive russet and black and white striping.
"What did I tell you, mate?" Mudge grinned over his mug at Jon-Tom.
He tried to smile back, aware that the otter was trying to break the glum mood
into which Jon-Tom had fallen. So he forced himself to continue the joke.
"Mighty short levitation, Mudge. I don't see how it does her any good."
"Who said anything about her?" The otter jabbed himself in the chest with a
thumb. "It's me the levitatin' benefits!" He clasped both furry arms around his
chest and roared at his own humor, threatening to upset table and self.
Wooden shades were rolled down to cover the two windows, and someone dimmed the
oil lamps. Jon-Tom started to rise, felt a restraining paw on his wrist.
"Nay, guv, 'tis nothing t' be concerned about." His eyes were sparkling. "Quite
the contrary. Did I not promise you some entertainment?" He pointed to the
circular serving counter and up.
What looked like an upside-down tree was slowly descending from a gap in the
center of the peaked ceiling. It was green with fresh growth, only the foliage
had been tacked on and doubtless was periodically renewed. The still unseen band
segued into an entirely new tune. The percussionist was doing most of the work
now, Jon-Tom noted. The beat was heavy, slow, and sensuous.
The yelling and shouting that filled the establishment changed also. Barely