turned to slam and bar it with barrels behind them he had a last glimpse across
the room as the police took action against the combatants within. This was
accompanied by a whiff of something awful beyond imagining and concentrated
beyond the power of man or beast to endure.
It weakened him so badly that he barely had strength enough to heave his
not-yet-digested dinner all over the far wall. It helped his pride if not his
stomach to see that the momentary smell had produced the same effect on Mudge
and the maroon-clad stranger. As he knelt in the alley and emptied his
nausea-squeezed guts, the pattern he'd glimpsed on the arriving police came back
to him.
Then they were all up and stumbling, running down the cobble-stoned alley, the
mist still dense around them and the siriell of garbage like perfume compared to
that which was fading with merciful speed behind them.
"Very... efficient, though I'm not so sure I'd call it humane, even if no one is
killed." He clung tightly to his staff, using it for support as they slowed a
little.
"Aye, mate." Mudge jogged steadily alongside him, behind the long-legged
stranger. Occasionally he gave a worried, disgusted glance back over a shoulder
to check for possible pursuit. None materialized.
"Indecent it is. You only wish you were dead. It be that way in every town,
though. Tis clean and there's no after caterwaulerin' about accidental death or
police brutalness and such. There's worse things than takin' an occasional sword
in the side, though. Like puking to death.
"Makes it a good thing for the skunks, though. I've never seen a one of those
black and white offal that lacked a good job in any township. 'Tis a brother and
sisterhood sort of comradeship they 'ave, which is well for 'em, since none o'
the common folk care for their companionship. They keep the peace, I suppose,
and keep t' themselves." He shuddered. "And keep in mind, mate, that we were
clean across the room from 'em. Those by the front will likely not touch food
for days." Several small lizards left their claimed bit of rotting meat,
skittered into a hole in the wall while the refugees hurried past, then returned
to their scavenging.
"Never could stand 'em myself, either. I don't like cops and I cannot abide
anyone who fights with 'is rear end."
Noises reached them from the far end of the alley and vestiges of that ghastly
odor materialized to stab at Jon-Tom's nostrils and stomach.
"They're followin'," said a worried Mudge. "Save us from that. I'd far rather be
cut."
"This way!" urged the cloaked figure. They turned up a branch of the alleyway.
Mist covered everything, slickened walls and cobblestones and trash underfoot.
They plunged onward, heedless of falling.
Gradually the smell began to recede once more. Jon-Tom was grateful for the time
he'd spent on the basketball court, and for the unusual stride that enabled him
to keep up with the hyperactive Mudge and their racing and still identityless
savior.
"They took the main passage," said that voice. "This should be safe enough."
They had emerged on a small side street. Dim will-o'-the-wisp glows came from
the warm globes of the street lamps overhead. It was quite dark otherwise, and
though the mist curtained the sky Jon-Tom was certain that sunset had come and
gone while they'd been dining in the restaurant.
The stranger unwrapped the muffler covering face and neck and let it hang across
shoulders and back. Cloak, shirt, and pants were made of the same maroon
material touched with silver thread. The material was neither leather nor cotton
but some mysterious organic hybrid. Pants, boots, and blouse had further
delicate designs of copper thread worked through them, as did the high, almost
Napoleonic collar.
A slim blade, half foil, half saber, was slung neatly from the waist. She stood
nearly as tall as Mudge's five foot six, which Jon-Tom had been given to
understand was tall for a human woman hereabouts. She turned, still panting from
the run, to study them. He was glad of the opportunity to reciprocate.
The maroon clothing fit snugly without binding and the face above it, though
expectedly petite, was hard and sharp-featured. The green eyes were more like
Mudge's than his own. They moved with almost equal rapidity over street and
alleyway, never ceasing. Her shoulder-length curls were flame-red. Not the
red-orange of most redheads but a fiery, flashing crimson that looked in the
lamplight like kinky blood.
Save for her coloring and the absence of fur and whiskers she displayed all the
qualities of an active otter. Only the pale green eyes softened the savage image
she presented, standing there nervously by the side of a building that seemed to
swoop winglike above them in the mist.
As for the rest of her, he had the damndest feeling he was seeing a cylindrical
candy bar well packed with peanuts. Her voice was full of hints of clove and
pepper, as active as her eyes and her body.
"Thought I'd never get you out of there." She was talking to Mudge. "I tried to
get you separated but," she glanced curiously up at Jon-Tom, "this great
gangling boy was always between us."
"I'd appreciate it," said Jon-Tom politely, "if you wouldn't refer to me as a
'boy'." He stared unblinkingly at her. "You don't look any older than me."
"I'll change my tune," she shot back, "when you've demonstrated the difference
to my satisfaction, though I hope more time isn't required. Still, I have to
admit that you handled yourself well enough inside the Possum. Clumsy, but
efficient. Size can make up for a helluva lot."
Clove and pepper, he thought. Each word was snapped off sharply in the air like
a string of firecrackers.
She turned distastefully away from his indelicate stare and asked Mudge wth
disarming candor, "How soon can we be rid of it?" She jerked a thumb in
Jon-Tom's bemused direction.
"I'm afraid we can't, m'love. Clothahump 'imself 'as entrusted 'im t' me tender
care."
"Clothahump, the wizard of the Tree?" Again she looked curiously at Jon-Tom.
"Aye. It seems 'e was castin' about for an otherworldly wizard type and 'e came
up with this chap Jon-Tom instead. As I said, because I 'appened t' be unlucky
enough to stumble into this manifestation, I've been ordered t' take care of
'im. At least until 'e can take better care of 'imself." Mudge raised a paw.
"On penalty o' curses too 'orrible t' explain, luv. But it 'ain't been too bad.
'E's a good enough lad, if a trifle naive."
Jon-Tom was beginning to feel a resurgence of the volatility that had set off
the riot in the Pearl Possum. "Hey now, people, I'm getting a little tired of
everyone continually running off my list of disabilities."
"Shut up and do as you're told," said the woman.
"Fuck you, sister," he spat back angrily. "How'd you like your backside the same
color as your hair?"
Her right hand suddenly sported a sixth finger. The knife gleamed in the dim
light. It was no longer than her middle finger but twice as broad and displayed
an unusual double blade.
"And how'd you like to sing about three octaves higher?"
"Please now, Talea." Mudge hurriedly interposed himself between them. "Think of
me, if naught else. 'E's me responsibility. If any 'arm comes to 'im while 'e's
in my care, Clothahump'll 'ave me 'ide. As to 'is singin' I've 'ad more than
enough for one night. That's wot started the trouble in the Possum in the first
place."
"More's the pity for you then, Mudge." But the blade disappeared with a twist of
the wrist, vanishing back inside her right sleeve. "I'll truce on it for you...