A delicately fingered hand extended hopefully in Jon-Tom's direction. "A silverpiece, sir. For one unlucky in war and unluckier still in peacetime? It was a bad upbringing and a misinformed judiciary that cost me this eye, sir. Now I exist only on the sufferance of others." Jon-Tom stood and gaped at the pitiful creature.
"A few coppers then, sir, if you've no silver to give?" The gibbon's voice was harsh with infection.
Suddenly he shrank back, falling against the protective trashcans. One fell over, spilling shreds of paper, bones, and other recognizable detritus into the alley. Dimensional dislocation does not eliminate the universality of garbage.
"Nay, sir, nay!" An arm shook as the simian held it across his face. "I meant no harm."
Mudge stood alongside Jon-Tom. The otter's sword was halfway clear of its chest scabbard. "I'll not 'ave you botherin' this gentleman while 'e's in my care!" He took another step toward the ruined anthropoid. "Maybe you mean no 'arm and maybe you do, but you'll do none while I'm about."
"Take it easy," murmured Jon-Tom, eyeing the cowering gibbon sympathetically. "Can't you see he's sick?"
"Sick be the word, aright. D'you not know 'ow to treat beggars, mate?" He pulled on his sword. The gibbon let out a low moan.
"I do." Jon-Tom reached into his pocket, felt for the small linen purse Clothahump had given him. He withdrew a small coin, tossed it to the gibbon. The simian scrambled among the stones and trash for it.
"Blessings on you, sir! Heaven kiss you!"
Mudge turned away, disgustedly sliding his sword back in place. "Waste o' money." He put a hand on Jon-Tom's arm. "Come on, then. Let's get you t' the shop I 'ave in mind before you spend yourself broke. It's a hard world, mate, and you'd better learn that soonest. You never saw the blighter's knife, I take it?"
"Knife?" Jon-Tom looked back toward the alley entrance. "What knife?" He felt queasy.
48
"Aye, wot knife indeed." He let out a sharp squeek. "If I 'adn't of been with you you'd 'ave found out wot knife. But I guess you can't 'elp yourself. Your brains bein' up that 'igh, I expect they thin along with the air, wot? 'Wot knife'... pfagh!" He stopped, glared up at the dazed Jon-Tom.
"Now if 'twere just up t' me, mate, I'd let you make as much the idiot of yourself as you seem to 'ave a mind t'. But I can't risk offendin' 'is wizardship, see? So until I've seen you safely set up in the world and on your own way t' where I think you might be able t' take some care for yourself, you'll do me the courtesy from now on o' takin' me advice. And if you'll not think o' yourself, then 'ave some pity for me. Mind the threats that Clothahump put on me." He shook his head, turned, and started on down the street again. "Me! Who was unlucky enough to trip over you when you tripped into my day."
"Yeah? What about me, then? You think I like it here? You think I like you, you fuzz-faced little fart?"
To Jon-Tom's dismay, Mudge smiled instead of going for his sword. "Now that's more like it, mate! That's a better attitude than givin' away your money." He spat back in the direction of the alley. "God-rotted stinkin' layabout trash as soon split your gut as piss on you. D'you wonder I like it better in the forest, mate?"
They turned off the main street into a side avenue that was not as small as an alley, not impressive enough to be a genuine street. It boasted half a dozen shopfronts huddled together in the throat of a long cul-de-sac. A single tall oil lamp illuminated the street. Cloth awnings almost met over the street, shutting out much of the lamplight as well as the rain. A miniature version of the central stream sprang from a stone fountain at the end of the cul-de-sac.
Jon-Tom shook water from his hands, and squeezed it from his long hair as he ducked under the cover of one awning. It was not designed to shield someone of his height. He stared at the sign over the large front window of the shop. It was almost comprehensible. Perhaps the longer he spent here the more acclimated his brain became. In any case, he did not have to understand the lettering to know what kind of shop this was. The window was filled with vests and shirts, elaborately stitched pantaloons, and a pair of trousers with bells running the length of the seams. Some lay on the window counter, others fitted dressmaker dummies that sometimes boasted ears and usually had tails.
A bell chimed brightly as Mudge pushed open the door. "Mind your 'ead now, Jon-Tom." His tall companion took note of the warning, and bowed under the eave.
The interior of the shop had the smell of leather and lavender. There was no one in sight. Several chairs with curved seats and backs were arranged neatly near the center of the floor. Long poles supported cross-racks from which clothing had been draped.
"Hoy, Proprietor!" Mudged whooped. "Show yourself and your work!"
"And work you shall have, my dear whoever-you-ares." The reply issued from the back of the shop. "Work only of the finest quality and best stitchery, of the toughest materials and prettiest..." The voice trailed off quickly.
The fox had come to a halt and was staring past Mudge at the dripping, lanky shape of Jon-Tom. Silk slippers clad the owner's feet. He wore a silk dressing gown with four matching ribbons of bright I aquamarine. They ran around his tail in intersecting loops to meet in a bow at the white tip. He also wore a more practical-looking belt from which protruded rulers, marking sticks, several pieces of dark green stone, and various other instruments of the tailor's craft. He spoke very deliberately.
"What... is that?" He gestured hesitantly at Jon-Tom.
"That's the work we're chattin' about, and a job it's goin' t' be, I'd wager." Mudge flopped down in one of the low-slung chairs with complete disregard for the upholstery and the fact that he was dripping wet. He put both short legs over one arm of the chair and pushed his feathered cap back on his forehead. "Off to it now, that's a good fellow."
The fox put both paws on hips and stared intently at the otter. "I do not clothe monsters! I have created attire for some of the best-dressed citizens of Lynchbany, and beyond. I have made clothing for Madam Scorianza and her best girls, for the banker Flaustyn Wolfe, for members of the town council, and for our most prominent merchants and craftsmen, but I do not clothe monsters."
Mudge leaned over in the chair and helped himself to a long thin stick from a nearby tall glass filled with them. "Look on it as a challenge, mate." He used a tiny flinted sparker to light the stick.
"Listen," said Jon-Tom, "I don't want to cause any trouble." The fox took a wary step backward as that towering form moved nearer. "Mudge here thinks that... that..." He was indicating the otter, who was puffing contentedly on the thin stick. Smoke filled the room with a delightfully familiar aroma.
"Say," said Jon-Tom, "do you suppose I could have one of those, uh, sticks?"
"For the convenience o' the customers, lad." Mudge magnanimously passed over a stick along with his sparker. Jon-Tom couldn't see how it worked, but at this point was more than willing to believe it had been treated with a good fire spell.
Several long puffs on the glowing stick more than relaxed him. Not everything in this world was as horrible as it seemed, he decided. It was smoking that had made him accessible to the questing thoughts of Clothahump. Perhaps smoking would let something send him home.
Ten minutes later, he no longer cared. Reassured by both Mudge and the giant's dreamy responses, the grumbling fox was measuring Jon-Tom as the latter lay quite contentedly on the carpeted floor. Mudge lay next to him, the two of them considerably higher mentally than physically. The tailor, whose name was Carlemot, did not objeet to their puffing, which indicated either an ample supply of the powerful smokesticks or a fine sense of public relations, or both.
He left them eventually, returning several hours later to find otter and man totally bombed. They still lay on the floor, and were currently speculating with great interest on the intricacies of the worm-holes in the wooden ceiling.
It was only later that Jon-Tom had recovered sufficiently for a dressing. When he finally saw himself in the mirror, the shock shoved aside quite a bit of the haze.
&
nbsp; The indigo silk shirt felt like cool mist against his skin. It was tucked neatly into straight-legged pants which were a cross between denim and flannel. Both pants and shirt were secured with matching buttons of black leather. The jet leather vest was fringed around the bottom and decorated with glass beadwork. The cuffs of the pants were likewise fringed, though he couldn't tell this at first because they were stuffed into calf-high black leather boots with rolled tops. At first it seemed surprising that the tailor had managed to find any footgear at all to fit him, considering how much larger he was than the average local human. Then it occurred to him that many of the inhabitants were likely to have feet larger in proportion to their bodies than did men.
A belt of metal links, silver or pewter, held up the pants, shone in sharp contrast to the beautifully iridescent hip-length cape of some green lizard leather. A pair of delicate but functional silver clips held the cape together at the collar.
Despite Mudge's insistence, however, he categorically refused to don the orange tricornered cap. "I just don't like hats."
"Such a pity." Carlemot's attitude had shifted from one of distress to one of considerable pride. "It really is necessary to complete the overall effect, which, if I may be permitted to say so, is striking as well as unique."
Jon-Tom turned, watched the scales of the cape flare even in the dim light. "Sure as hell would turn heads in L.A."
"Not bad," Mudge conceded. "Almost worth the price."
" 'Almost' indeed!" The fox was pacing round Jon-Tom, inspecting the costume for any defects or tears. Once he paused to snip a loose thread from a sleeve of the shirt. "It is subdued yet flashy, attention-gathering without being obtrusive." He smiled, displaying sharp teeth in a long narrow snout.
"The man looks like a noble, or better still, a banker. When one is confronted with so much territory to cover, the task is at first daunting. However, the more one has to work with, the more gratifying the end results. Never mind this plebian, my tall friend," the fox continued, gazing up possessively at Jon-Tom, "what is your opinion?"
"I like it. Especially the cape." He spun a small circle, nearly fell down but recovered poise and balance nicely. "I always wanted to wear a cape."
"I am pleased." The tailor appeared to be waiting for something, coughed delicately.
"Crikey, mate," snapped Mudge, "pay the fellow."
Some good-natured haggling followed, with Mudge's task made the more difficult by the fact that Jon-Tom kept siding with the tailor. A reasonable balance was still struck, since Carlemot's natural tendency to drive a hard bargain was somewhat muted by the pleasure he'd received from accomplishing so difficult a job.
That did not keep Mudge from chastising Jon-Tom as they left the shop behind. The drizzle had become a heavy mist around them.
"Mate, I can't save you much if you're goin' t' take the side of the shopkeeper."
"Don't worry about it." For the first time in a long while, he was feeling almost happy. Between the lingering effects of the smoke session and the gallant appearance he was positive his new attire gave him, his mood was downright expansive. "It was a tough task for him and he did a helluva job. I don't begrudge him the money. Besides," he jingled the purse in his pocket, "we still have some left."
"That's good, because we've one more stop t' make."
"Another?" Jon-Tom frowned. "I don't need any more clothing."
"That so? Far as I'm concerned, mate, you're walkin' around bloody naked." He turned right. They passed four or five storefronts on the wide street, crossed the cobblestones and a little bridge arcing over the central stream, and entered another shop.
It possessed an entirely different ambiance from the warm tailor shop they'd just left. While the fox's establishment had been spotless, soft-looking, and comfortable as an old den, this one was chill with an air of distasteful business.
One entire wall was speckled with devices designed for throwing. There were dozens of knives; ellipsoidal, stiletto, triangular, with or without blood gutters grooved nastily in their flanks, gem-encrusted little pig-stickers for argumentative ladies, trick knives concealed in eyeglass cases or boot soles... all the deadly variety of which the honer was capable.
Throwing stars shone in the lamplight like decorations plucked from the devil's Christmas tree. A spiked bolo hung from an intricate halberd. Maces and nunchaku alternated wall space with spears and shields, pikes and war axes. Near the back of the shop were the finer weapons, long bows and swords with more variety of handle (to fit many different size and shape of hand) than of blade. One particularly ugly half-sword looked more like a double scythe. It was easy to envision the damage it could do when wielded by a knowledgeable arm. That of a gibbon with a deceptive reach, for example.
Some of the swords and throwing knives had grooved or hollow handles. Jon-Tom was at a loss to imagine what sort of creature they'd been designed for until he remembered the birds. A hand would not make much use of such grips, but they were perfect for, say, a flexible wing tip.
For a few high moments he'd managed to forget that this was a world of established violence and quick death. He leaned over the counter barring the back of the shop from the front and studied something that resembled a razor-edged frisbee. He shuddered, and looked around for Mudge.
The otter had moved around the counter and had vanished behind a bamboolike screen. When Jon-Tom thought to call to him, he was already returning, chatting with the owner. The squat, muscular raccoon wore only an apron, sandals, and a red headband with two feathers sticking downward past his left ear. He smelled, as did the back of the shop, of coalsmoke and steel.
"So this is the one who wants the mayhem?" The raccoon pursed his lips, looked over a black nose at Jon-Tom.
"Mudge, I don't know about this. I've always been a talker, not a fighter."
"I understand, mate," said the otter amiably. "But there are weighty arguments and there are weighty arguments." He hefted a large mace to further illustrate his point. "Leastways, you don't have to employ none of these tickle-me-tights, but you bloody well better show something or you'll mark yourself an easy target.
"Now, can you use any of these toys?"
Jon-Tom examined the bewildering array of dismembering machinery. "I don't..." he shook his head, looking confused.
The armorer stepped in. "Tis plain to see he's no experience." His tone was reproving but patient. "Let me see, now. With his size and reach..." He moved thoughtfully to a wall where pikes and spears grew like iron wheat from the floor, each set in its individual socket in the wooden planks. His right paw rubbed at his nose.
With both hands he removed an ax with a blade the size of his head. "Where skill and subtlety are absent, mayhap it would be best to make use of the other extremes. No combat or weapons training at all, young lad?"
Jon-Tom shook his head, looked unencouraging.
"What about sports?"
"I'm not bad at basketball. Pretty good jump shot, and I can--"
"Shit!" Mudge kicked at the floor. "What the devil's arse is that? Does it perhaps involve some hittin'?" he asked hopefully.
"Not much," Jon-Tom admitted. "Mostly running and jumping, quick movements...."
"Well, that be something," Mudge faced the armorer. "Something less bull-bright than that meat cleaver you're holdin', then. What would you recommend?"
"A fast retreat." The armorer turned dourly to another rack, preening his whiskers. "Though if the man can lay honest claim to some nimbleness, there ought to be something." He put up the massive ax. "Mayhap we can give him some help."
He removed what looked like a simple spear, made from the polished limb of a tree. But instead of a spearpoint, the upper end widened into a thick wooden knob with bumps and dull points. It was taller than Mudge and reached Jon-Tom's ears, the shaft some two inches in diameter.
"Just a club?" Mudge studied the weapon uncertainly.
"Tis the longest thing I've got in the shop." The armorer dragged a clipped nail down the shaft. "
This is ramwood. It won't snap in a fight. With your friend's long reach, he can use it to fend an opponent off if he's not much interested in properly disposing of him. And if things get tight and he's still blood-shy, why, a good clop on the head with the business end of this will make someone just as dead as if you'd split his skull. Not as messy as the ax, but just as effective." He handed it to the reluctant Jon-Tom.
"It'll make you a fine walking stick, too, man. And there's something else. I mentioned giving you some help." He pointed at the middle of the staff. Halfway up the shaft were two bands of inlaid silver three inches apart. The space between was decorated with four silver studs.
"Press any one of those, man."
Jon-Tom did so. There was a click, and the staff instantly grew another foot. Twelve inches of steel spike now projected from the base of the staff. Jon-Tom was so surprised he almost dropped the weapon, but Mudge danced about like a kid in a candy shop.
"Bugger me mother if that ain't a proper surprise for any discourteous dumb-butt you might meet in the street. A little rub from that'll cure 'em right quick, I venture!"
"Aye," agreed the armorer with pride. "Just tap 'em on the toe and press your release and I guarantee you'll see one fine wide-eyed expression." Both raccoon and otter shook with amusement.
Jon-Tom pushed down on the shaft and the spear-spike retracted like a cats-claw up inside the staff. Another experimental grip on the studs, and it shot out once more. It was clever, but certainly not amusing.
"Listen, I'd rather not fool with this thing at all, but if you insist..."
"I do." Mudge stopped laughing, wiped tears from his eyes. "I do insist. Like the master armorer 'ere says, you don't 'ave t' use that toe-chopper if you've no mind t', but there'll likely be times when you'll want t' keep some sword-swingin' sot a fair few feet from your guts. So take claim to it and be glad."
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