face the stagnant water. "Where ith thith one? Hiding on a boat? Ith going to
cotht you another hundredth silver piethes. I'm growing tired of thith. You'll
pay me right now or elth..." and he twirled the mace menacingly.
A great tired creaking drowned out the last words of the threat as two ships
were bodily shouldered aside. Dock planking gave under irresistible pressure
from below. A huge black head emerged from beneath, trailing water and shattered
boards. Great claws dug into broken stone, and coal-eyes glared down at the
group.
The beaver stared open-mouthed up at the wet, shiny teeth clashing just above
him. "D-d-d-d-!" He never did get the whole word out, but managed to outwaddle
half his subordinates in the race for the main gate.
Sailors hastily abandoned their ships in the mad rush for the gate. Vendors and
merchants abandoned their stocks and wharfside businesses in favor of drier
territory. There was panic on the city wall as rudely awakened troops ran into
one another in their rush to take up defensive positions.
The now solitary band of travelers put up their own weapons.
"A timely appearance, comrade," said Jon-Tom. "I'd hoped you might still be
nearby, but I had no idea it would be quite this near."
Falameezar gazed at the terrified faces peeking over the top of the wall. "What
is wrong with them?" He was more curious than angry. "I heard your call and came
as promised, but I thought they surely would treat you as fellow
comrades-in-arms in the great struggle to come."
"Yes, but you recall what I told you about the presence of
counterrevolutionaries?" Jon-Tom said darkly.
"Oho, so that's it!" Falameezar let out a furious hiss and a trio of small shops
burst into flame.
"Careful. We just want to get inside, not burn the city down."
A massive tail lashed at the water and instantly put out the small fires, though
he did the innocent shops no more good than had the flames.
"Keep your anger in check, Falameezar," Jon-Tom advised. "I'm sure we'll have
this all straightened out as soon as we can get to talk with the city's
commissars."
"I should certainly think so!" said the dragon huffily. "The idea of letting
counterrevolutionaries interdict innocent travelers."
"It's hard to tell the true revolutionaries from their secretive enemies."
"I suppose that's so," the dragon admitted.
"There might be even worse yet to come," Jon-Tom informed him as they all
sashayed across the stones toward the now tightly barred wooden gate.
"Like what, comrade?"
Jon-Tom whispered, "Revisionists."
Falameezar shook his head and muttered tiredly, "Is there no decency left in the
world?"
"Just keep your temper under control," Jon-Tom told him. "We don't want to
accidentally incinerate any honest proletarians."
"I will be careful," the dragon assured him, "but inside I am trembling with
outrage. Yet even a filthy revisionist can be reedueated."
"Yes, it's clear that the formation of instructional cadres should be a priority
here," Jon-Tom agreed.
The city of Polastrindu had suddenly taken on the aspect of a ghost town. At the
dragon's continued approach all interested faces had vanished from the wall.
Only an occasional spear showed itself, and that was the only sign of movement.
Jon-Tom could feel the eyes of hidden sailors and stevedores on his back, but
there was nothing to worry about from that quarter. In fact, so long as
Falameezar remained with them there was little to fear from anywhere.
He glanced at Caz. The rabbit smiled and nodded back at him. Being the one in
control of the dragon, it behooved Jon-Tom to do the talking. So he marched up
to the gate and rapped arrogantly on the wood.
"Captain of the Gate, show yourself!" When there was neither a reply nor hint of
movement from within, he added, "Show yourself or we'll burn down your gate and
make you Captain of Ashes!"
There were sounds of argument from within. Then a slight groaning of wood as the
massive portal opened just wide enough to permit the egress of a familiar
figure. The gate shut quickly closed behind him.
"That's better." Jon-Tom eyed the beaver, who looked considerably less
belligerent now. "We were discussing something about 'identity chits'?"
"They're being prepared right now," the officer told him, his gaze continually
darting up at the glowering crimson-eyed face of the dragon.
"That's nice. There was also the matter of a large number of silver pieces?"
"No, no, no. Don't be ridiculouth. And abthurd mithunderthanding!"
A moment later a grateful expression came over his face as the gate opened
again. He disappeared inside and came back with a handful of tiny metal
rectangles. Each was stamped with tiny symbols and a few words.
"Here we are." He passed them out quickly. "You are to have your own nameth
engraved here." He indicated a wide blank place on each chit. "At your leithure,
of courth," he added obsequiously.
"But there are only seven chits here." The beaver looked confused. "Remember, by
your own recognition there are now eight in our party."
"I don't underthand," said the nervous officer. He nodded slightly in
Falameezar's direction. "Thurely that ith not coming into the thity?"
"A bourgeois statement if ever I heard one!" The dragon leaned close enough for
the smell of brimstone and sulfur to overpower the odor of spilling sewage. That
he could swallow the officer in one snap was a fact not lost on that worthy.
"No, no... a mithunderthanding, thath all. I... I'm truly thorry, thir dragon. I
didn't realize you were a part of thith party... not jutht... if you'll excuth
me, pleath!" He back-pedaled through the opening faster than Jon-Tom would have
believed those bandy legs could carry him.
Several minutes went by this time before he reappeared. "The latht chit," he
said, panting as he preferred the freshly stamped metal plate.
"I'll take charge of it." Jon-Tom slipped it into a shirt pocket. "And now if
you'd be so kind as to open the gate?"
"Open up in there!" yelled the officer. The newcomers strolled through.
Falameezar had to duck his head and barely succeeded in squeezing through the
opening.
They found themselves in a deserted courtyard. Hundreds of anxious eyes observed
them from behind dozens of barely opened windows.
Huge stone structures marched off in all directions. As in Lynchbany, they gave
the impression of dozens of smaller buildings that had grown together, only here
the scale was larger. The city had the appearance of a gray sand castle. Some of
the structures were six and seven stories tall. Ragged apartment buildings
displayed odd windows and individual balconies.
The streets they could see were much wider than in provincial Lynchbany, though
overhanging porches and window boxes made them appear narrower. The street that
opened into their courtyard led to the harbor gate. It was only natural that it
be wider than most. Undoubtedly the city possessed its share of alleys and
closes.
Evidence of considerable traffic abounded, from the worn domes of the
cobblestones that projected like the bald skulls of buried midgets to the huge
piles of discarded trash. Several dozen stalls ringed the courtyard square.
Jon-Tom suspected that until a little while ago these had been crowded with busy
vendors hawking wares to sailors and shoppers alike. A few salespeople still
cowered within, too weak or too greedy to flee. Some of the frightened faces
were furry, a few humanly smooth.
"Look at 'em, ashrinkin' behind their bellies." Mudge made insulting faces at