"Hard to say. Maybe she is, maybe not."
"Then why is she doing it?"
"Because she in love. Can't you see that?" The rabbit sounded surprised at
Jon-Tom's evident naivete.
"Hey... I can't play this round."
"Why not, man?" Suddenly the rabbit sounded considerably less friendly.
"I just think I've had enough." He was starting to gather up his winnings,
looking for pockets in pants and shirt to shove handfuls of coins into. The
other players looked upset and there were some movements in his direction.
But there was honor among thieves here, too. For every angry grumbling from the
players there were cries from the onlookers of, "He won fair.... The man can
pull out any time!... Let him leave if he wants.... You can't stop him...." and
so forth. But some of the comments were accompanied by eager looks at the pile
of coins in front of him. It occurred to Jon-Tom that winning the money was no
assurance he'd leave with it. Of course, no one would think of making an
outright attack on an honest winner. But Thieves' Hall was full of tunnels and
dark cul-de-sacs.
He looked helplessly up at the rabbit, whispered, "What should I do?"
The other's attitude softened, turned friendly once again.
"Well first thing, pay attention to you own clothing." He laughed and reached
for Jon-Tom's throat. Jon-Tom instinctively started to pull away, but the rabbit
only paused and grinned hugely at him. "With you permission?"
Jon-Tom hesitated, then nodded. There was no reason to assume the animal had
turned suddenly hostile.
Unclipping the cape while the rest of the players waited impatiently, the rabbit
spread it out on the floor. "Ah, I thought right so. Good tailor you got," and
he pointed out the hidden stitching and buttons lining the bottom hem of the
cape.
This he carefully unsnapped. With Jon-Tom's help, he filled the hidden
compartment with handfuls of coins. When it was full to the snaps they sealed it
tight again. Jon-Tom clipped it back around his neck. The weight was a tolerable
drag.
"There," said the rabbit with satisfaction, "that be more better. No one think
to pickpocket a cape. Only these few here, and I see no skilled one among them.
Others who see will think only rocks in there."
"Why would I fill my cape with rocks?"
"To keep it from blow over you head and blind you in a fight, or while riding in
a storm. Also to use in a fight. You may look weaponless, but what you got now
is five-foot flexible club to complement long staff." He turned his gaze
skyward. "That how I like to go, though. Beaten to death with somebody's money.
Or perhaps..." He looked back over at Jon-Tom. "It no matter my problems."
"Maybe it does." Jon-Tom reached into the still sizable pile of coins in front
of him and selected three large gold circles. "These are for your problems. And
for your good advice and counsel."
The rabbit took them gratefully, slipped them in a vest pocket, and sealed it.
"That kind of you, man. I take because I need the money. Under better
circumstances I refuse. More advice: don't go passing around gold too much like
this. You attract attention of some not so noble as I.
"Now as to what you should do, you pull out now if you really want. But you in
middle of round. It be better if you finish this one go-round. Then no one can
say shit to you."
"But what about the girl?" The bitch was tapping feet clad in pastel blue ballet
slippers and looking quite put out.
"Well, I tell you man," and he winked significantly, "you finish out this round.
I have three goldpieces you know. You have place in circle to finish. If you
win, I give you back gold circle for her." He eyed the muscular, tawny form of
the she-wolf. "Maybe two."
"Oh, all right." He looked a last time at the ring of spectators. Still no sign
of Mudge or Talea.
The dice were passed as the watchers nudged one another, muttered, made side
bets, or simply stared curiously. A ferret on the far side rolled a seven,
moaned. Next to him was a mole wearing immensely thick dark glasses and a peaked
derby. He dumped an eight, then a six, then a seven, and finally a losing three.
The dice came around to Jon-Tom. He tossed them into the circle. Two fours and a
two. Then a ten. The dice went to the fisher on his right. He rolled a ten.
Cries went up from the crowd, which pushed and shoved discourteously at the
circle of players. Jon-Tom rolled a six. Back to the fisher, who looked
confident. Over went the three dice, came up showing a one, a two, and a three.
The fisher kicked dirt into the circle. The shouts were ear-shaking.
Jon-Tom had won again.
He spoke as he turned. "There you go, friend. It's time to..." He stopped. There
was no sign of the rabbit.
Only a smartly dressed howler monkey nearby had noted the disappearance of
Jon-Tom's advisor. "The tall fella? White with gray patches?" Jon-Tom nodded,
and the simian gestured vaguely back down a main passage.
"He went off that way a while ago. So little golden ground squirrel came up to
him... delicate little bit of fluff she was... and he went off with her."
"But I can't..."
A hand touched his shoulder. He turned, found himself staring across into
aluminum-like eyes, glistening and penetrating. "I have not done it with many
humans, man. I understand some of you are fond of strange practices." The voice
was low, husky, and not altogether uninterested. "Is that true also with you?"
"Listen, I don't think you understand."
"Try me."
"No, no... that's not what I meant. I mean..." He was more flustered than at any
tune since they'd entered the hall. "It's just that I can't, I don't want you.
Go back there." He waved across the circle. "Go back to him."
"Just what the hell are you implying, man?" Her eyes flashed and she stepped
back.
The fox was suddenly standing next to her, angry at something other than his
losing. "Something wrong with Wurreel? Do you think I need your charity?"
"No, it's not that at all." He slowly climbed to his feet, kept a firm grip on
the staff. Around him the crowd was murmuring in an unfriendly manner. The looks
he was receiving were no longer benign.
"Please," he told the bitch, "just go back to your master here, or friend, or
whatever."
The fox moved nearer, jabbed a clawed finger in Jon-Tom's stomach. "Just what
kind of fellow are you? Do you think I don't pay my debts? Do you think I'd
renege on my obligations?"
"Screw your obligations, Mossul," said the wolf haughtily, "What about my
honor?" Her tone and gaze were now anything but interested. "See how he looks at
me, with disgust. I am insulted."
That brought a nasty series of cries from the crowd. "Shame, shame! ...down with
him!"
"It's not that. I just... don't want you."
She made an inarticulate growl, hit him in the chest with a fist. "That does
it!" She looked around at the shifting circle of spectators. "Is there a male
here who will defend my reputation? I demand satisfaction... of this kind if not
the other!"
"Your reputation..." Jon-Tom was becoming badly tongue-tied. "I didn't insult...
what about him?" He pointed at the fox. "He was the one selling you."
"Loaning, not selling," countered the fox with dignity. "And it was mutually
agreed upon."
"That's right. I'd do anything for Mossul. Except be insulted, like this, in
public." She put an affectionate arm around the fox's silk-clad shoulders.
"Turn him out, turn him out!" came the rising shouts.
"Wot's 'appening 'ere, mate. I leave you alone for a bit and you manage t' upset
the 'ol 'all." Mudge was at Jon-Tom's back and Talea nearby.