a while."
His worries were groundless. Mudge was in entirely too good a mood to be
offended by anything.
"Wotever you like, mate. We'll go and 'ave a chat then, if that's wot you want.
But don't forget we've still the little matter o' settlin' you on some proper
course o' employment." He shook his head more to clear it than to indicate
displeasure.
"Minstrel... I don't know. There might still be the novelty factor." He
scratched the fur just under his chin. "Tell you what. Give us another song and
then we'll go over and see if we can't make the acquaintance o' those chaps."
"I thought you'd heard enough the first time."
"Never go on first appearances, mate. Besides, 'twas a damn blue and gloomy tune
you let out with. Try somethin' different. Many's the minstrel who well mangles
one type o' tune yet can warble clearly another."
Jon-Tom sat down again, linked his fingers, and considered. "I don't know. What
would you like to hear? Classical, pop, blues, jazz?" He tried to sound
enthusiastic. "I know some classical, but what I really always wanted to do was
sing rock. It's a form of popular music back where I come from."
"I don't know either, mate. 'Ow 'bout ballads? Everyone likes ballads."
"Sure." He was warming again to his true love. "I know a number of 'em. What
subject do you like best?"
"Let me think on it a minute." Actually, it was only a matter of seconds before
a gleam returned to the black eyes, along with a smile.
"Never mine," Jon-Tom said hastily. "I'll think of something."
He thought, but it was hard to settle on any one song. Maybe it was the noise
and smell swirling around them, maybe the aftereffects of the meal, but words
and notes flitted in and out of his brain like gnats, never pausing long enough
for him to get a grip on any single memory. Besides, he felt unnatural singing
without his trusty, worn Grundig slung over his shoulder and across his stomach.
If he only had something, even a harmonica. But he couldn't play that and sing
simultaneously.
"Come on now, mate," Mudge urged him. "Surely you can think o' something?"
"I'll try," and he did, launching into a cracked rendition of "Strawberry Fair,"
but the delicate harmonies were drowned in the bellowing and hooting and
whistling that filled the air of the restaurant.
Nonetheless, he was unprepared for the sharp blow that struck him between the
shoulderblades and sent him sprawling chest-down across the table.
Angry and confused, he turned to find himself staring into a ferocious dark
brown face set on a stocky, muscular body as tall as Mudge's but more than twice
as broad....
VI
The snakeskin beret and red bandana did nothing to lessen the wolverine's
intimidating appearance.
"Sorry," Jon-Tom mumbled, uncertain of what else to say.
The face glared down at him, powerful jaws parting to reveal sharp teeth as the
lips curled back. "You ban not sorry enough, I think!" the creature rumbled
hollowly. "I ban pretty sorry for your mother, she having much to listen to a
voice like that. You upset my friends and my meal."
"I was just practicing." He was beginning to feel a mite indignant at the
insults. The warmth of the roast was still with him. He failed to notice the
queasy expression that had come over Mudge's faee. "It's difficult to sing
without any music to accompany me."
"Yah, well, you ban practice no more, you hear? It ban hurt my ears."
Mudge was trying and failing to gain Jen-Tom's attention. Jon-Tom rose from his
seat to tower over the shorter but more massive animal. It made him feel better,
giving proof once again to the old adage about the higher, the mightier. Or as
the old philosopher said, witness the pigeon's tactical advantage over man.
However the wolverine was not impressed. He gazed appraisingly up and down
Jon-Tom's length. "All that voice tube and no voice. Maybe you ban better at
singing in harmony, yah? So maybe I put one half neek here and the other half
across the table," and powerful clawed hands reached for Jon-Tom's face.
Dodging nimbly, Jon-Tom slipped around the table, brought up his staff, and
swung the straight end down in a whistling arc. Having had plenty to consume
himself, the wolverine reacted more slowly than usual. He did not quite get both
hands up in time to defend himself, and the staff smacked sharply over one set
of knuckles. The creature roared in pain.
"Look, I don't want any trouble."
"You stick up for your rights, mate!" Mudge urged him, beginning a precipitous
retreat from the vicinity of the table. "I'll watch and make sure it be a fair
fight."
"Like hell you will!" He held the staff tightly, trying to divide his attention
between the wolverine and the otter. "You remember what Clothahump said."
"Screw that!" But Mudge hesitated, his hand fumbling in the vicinity of his
chest sword. Clearly he was sizing up the tense triangle that had formed around
the table and debating whether or not he stood a better chance of surviving
Clothahump's vengeful spell-making than the wolverine and his friends. The
latter consisted of a tall marten and a chunky armadillo who displayed a sword
hanging from each hip belt. Of course, earrying weapons and knowing how to use
them were two different matters.
They were rising and moving to flank the wolverine and gazing at Jon-Tom in a
decidedly unfriendly manner. The wolverine himself had regained his composure
and was sliding an ugly-looking mace from the loop on his own belt.
"Steady on, mate," the otter urged his companion, sword out and committed now.
The wolverine was bouncing the spiked iron head of the mace up and down in one
palm, gripping the handle with the other. "Maybe I ban wrong about that
harmony." He eyed the man's throat. "Maybe I ban eliminate that voice
altogether, yah?" He started forward, encountered a waiter who started to curse
him, then saw the mace and fled into the crowd.
"Is too crowded in here though. I tink I meet you outside, hokay?"
"Hokay," said Jon-Tom readily. He moved as if to leave, got his right hand under
the edge of the table, and heaved. Table, drinks, remnants of their greasy meal
and platterware showered down on the wolverine, his companions, and several
unsuspecting occupants of other tables. The innocent bystanders took exception
to the barrage. One of the wolverine's associates side-stepped the flying table
and jabbed his sword at the otter's face. Mudge ducked under the marten's thrust
and kept his sword ready to challenge the emerging armadillo while neatly
kicking the bellicose marten in the nuts. The stricken animal grabbed himself
and went to his knees.
Among those who had received the dubious decorations preferred by Jon-Tom's
action were a pair of female coatis whose delicacy of shape and flash of eye
were matched by the outrage in their voices. They had drawn slim rapiers and
were struggling to join the fray.
Jon-Tom had moved backward and to his left, this being the only space still not
filled with potential combatants, and was quickly joined by Mudge. They
continued backing until they upset another table and its patrons. This
instituted a chain reaction which led with astonishing rapidity to a general
mayhem that threatened to involve every one in the establishment.
Only the chefs and bartenders kept their calm. They remained invulnerable behind
their protective circular counter, defending liquor and food as assiduously as
they had the honor and person of their gleaming white star performer. Only when
some stumbling battler intruded on their territorial circle did their heavy