by neetha Napew
"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.
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."
Jon-Tom hefted the shaft, but he wasn't glad. Merely having possession of the
deceptive weapon was depressing him.
Outside they examined the contents of the little purse. It was nearly empty. A
few small silver coins gleamed forlornly like fish in a dark tank from the
bottom of the sack. Jon-Tom wondered if he hadn't been slightly profligate with
Clothahump's generosity.
Mudge appraised the remnants of their fortune. Mist continued to dampen them,
softening the lamplight that buttered the street and shopfronts. With the easing
of the rain, other pedestrians had reappeared. Animal shadow-shapes moved dimly
through the fog.
"Hungry, mate?" asked the otter finally, black eyes shining in the light.
"Starving!" He was abruptly aware he hadn't had a thing to eat all day. Mudge's
store of jerked meat had given out the previous evening.
"I also." He clapped Jon-Tom on his cape. "Now you looks almost like a real
person." He leaned conspiratorially close. "Now I know a place where the silver
we 'ave left will bring us as fat a feast as a pregnant hare could wish. Maybe
even enough t' fill your attenuated belly-hollow!" He winked. "Maybe some
> entertainment besides. You and I 'ave done our duty for the day, we 'ave."
As they strolled further into town, they encountered more pedestrians. An
occasional wagon jounced down the street, and individuals on saddled riding
lizards hopped or ran past. Long pushbrooms came into play as shopkeepers swept
water from porches and storefronts. Shutters snapped open. For the first time
Jon-Tom heard the wails of children. Cubs would be the better term, he corrected
himself.
Two young squirrels scampered by. One finally tackled the other. They tumbled to
the cobblestones, rolling over and over, punching and kicking while a small mob
of other youngsters gathered around and urged them on. To Jon-Tom's dismay their
initial cuteness was muted by the manner in which they gouged and scratched at
each other. Not that his own hometown was devoid of violence, but it seemed to
be a way of life here. One cub finally got the other down and was assiduously
making pulp of his face. His peers applauded enthusiastically, offering
suggestions for further disfigurement.
"A way of life, mate?" Mudge said thoughtfully when Jon-Tom broached his
thoughts. "I wouldn't know. I'm no philosopher, now. But I know this. You can be
polite and dead or respected and breathin'." He shrugged. "Now you can make your
own choice. Just don't be too ready to put aside that nice new toy you've
bought."
Jon-Tom made sure he had a good grip on the staff. The increasing crowd and
lifting of the fog brought fresh stares. Mudge assured him it was only on
account of his unusual size. If anything, he was now clad far better than the
average citizen of Lynchbany Towne.
Five minutes later he was no longer simply hungry, he was ravenous.
"Not much longer, mate." They turned down a winding side street. There was an
almost hidden entrance on their left, into which Mudge urged him. Once again he
had to bend nearly double to clear the overhang.
Then he was able to stand. The ceiling inside was a good two feet above his
head, for which he was more than slightly grateful.
"The Pearl Possum," said Mudge, with considerably more enthusiasm than he'd
displayed toward anything else so far. "Me, I'm for somethin' liquid now. This
way, mate. 'Ware the lamps."
Jon-Tom followed the otter into the bowels of the restaurant, elbowing his way
