them of a female cast. Flor in particular studied them with as much interest as
ever she'd devoted to a class in the sociology of nineteenth-century theater.
Occasionally these faces would regard them with more than usual intent. These
stares were reserved primarily for the giants Flor and Jon-Tom. Some of the
comments that accompanied these looks were as appreciative as they were ribald.
"My feet are beginning to hurt," Jon-Tom told Caz. "How much farther? You know
where you're taking us?"
"In a nonspecific way, yes, my friend. We are searching for an establishment
that combines the best of all possible worlds. Not every tavern offers sport.
Not every gaming house supplies refreshment. And of the few that offer all, not
many are reputable enough to set foot in."
Still another corner they turned. To his surprise Jon-Tom noted that Talea had
sidled close to him.
"It's nice to be out," he said conversationally. "Not that I was so
uncomfortable back there in the barracks, but it's the principle of the thing.
If they think they can get away with restricting our movements, then they'll be
more inclined to do so, and less respeetful of Clothahump's information."
"That's so," she said huskily. "But that's not what concerns me now."
"No?" He put his arm around her experimentally. She didn't resist. He thought
back to that morning in the forest when he'd awakened to find her curled up
against his shoulder. That warmth communicated itself now through her shirt and
cape. It traveled through his fingers right up his arm and down toward nether
regions.
"What does concern you, then?" he asked affectionately.
"That for the past several minutes we've been followed." Startled, Jon-Tom
started to look back over his shoulder when a hand jabbed painfully into his
ribs.
"Don't look at them, you idiot!" He forced his eyes resolutely ahead. "There are
six or seven of them, I think."
"Maybe it's just another group of party-goers," he said hopefully.
"I don't think so. They've neither fallen behind us, turned off on a different
street, nor come any nearer. They've kept too consistent a gap between us to
mean well."
"Then what should we do?" he asked her.
"Probably turn into the next tavern. If they mean us any harm, they'll be more
reluctant to try anything in front of a room full of witnesses."
"We can't be sure of that. Why not send Pog back to check 'em out," he suggested
brightly, "before we jump to any conclusions? At the least he can tell us
exactly how many of them there are and how heavily armed they are."
She looked up at him approvingly. "That's more like it. The more suspicious you
become, Jon-Tom, the longer you'll live. Pog! Pog?" The others looked back at
her curiously.
"Pog! Good-for-nothing parasitic airborne piece of shit, where the hell--?"
"Stow it, sister!" The bat was abruptly fluttering in front of them. "I've got
some bad news for ya."
"We already know," Talea informed him.
He looked puzzled, remained hovering a couple of feet in front of them as they
walked. "You do? But how could you? I flew on ahead because I was getting bored,
and surely ya can't see...?"
"Wait... wait a second," muttered Jon-Tom. "Ahead? But," and he jerked a thumb
back over his left shoulder, "we were talking about the group that's be--"
"That's far enough!" declaimed a strange voice.
"Whup... see yas." Pog suddenly rocketed straight up into the darkness formed by
garrets and overhanging beams.
Jon-Tom hastily searched the street. The nearest open doorway from which music
and laughter emerged was at least half a block ahead of them on the left. At the
moment there was nothing flanking them save a couple of dark portals. One led
into a close that pierced a labyrinth of stairways. The other was heavily barred
with iron-studded shutters.
There was no one else in sight. Not a single stray celebrant, or better still,
any of the city's night patrol.
In front of them waited perhaps a dozen heavily armed humans. Most boasted long
scraggly hair and longer faces. They hefted clubs, maces, quarterstaffs, and
bolas. It was an impressive assortment of armament. Not until much later did he
have time to reflect on the fact that there was not a single serious killing
weapon, not one knife or spear or sword, among them.
The humans had spread themselves into a semicircle across the street, blocking
it completely. Jon-Tom considered the narrow close a last time. It had more the
look of a trap than a means of escape.
Two-thirds of the humans were male, the rest female. None wore decent clothes or
pleasant looks. All were roughly Talea's height. Even Caz was taller than most
of them. Their attention was on Jon-Tom and Flor, whom they regarded with
unconcealed interest.
"We'd appreciate it if you'd come along with us." This request was made by a
stocky blond fellow in the middle of the group. His beard seemed to continue
right down into his naked chest, as did the drooping mustache. In fact, he
displayed so much hair that Jon-Tom wondered in the darkness if he really was
human and not one of the other furry local citizens.
That led him to consider the unusual homogeneity of the group. Up till now,
every gathering of locals he'd encountered, whether diners or merchants, sailors
or pedestrians, had been racially mixed.
He looked backward. The lot who'd been trailing them had spread out to block any
retreat back up the street and yes, they were also wholely human, and similarly
armed.
"That's nice of you," Caz said, replying to the invitation, "but we have other
plans of our own." He spoke for all his companions. Jon-Tom casually swung his
staff around from his back, slipped the duar out of the way. Talea's hand
dropped to her sword. There was some uneasy shuffling among the humans
confronting them.
"I'm sorry. We insist."
"I wish you would encyst," said Flor cheerfully, "preferably with something
cancerous."
The insult was lost on the man, who simply blinked at her. Both clusters began
to crowd the travelers, edging in from front and back.
There was a light metallic sound as Talea's sword appeared in her hand. "First
one of you rodents lays a hand on me is cold meat."
In the dim light from the oil lamps Jon-Tom thought she looked lovelier than
ever. But then, so did Flores Quintera.
She'd assumed an amazonian stance with her own short sword and mace held
expectantly in front of her, the light gleaming off the saw teeth lining the
steel.
"Ovejas y putas, come and take us... if you can."
"Ladies, please!" protested Caz, aghast at the manner in which his attempted
diplomacy was being undermined from behind. "It would be better for all of us
if... excuse me, sir." He'd been glancing back at Talea and Flor but had not
lost sight of their opponents. One of them had jumped forward and attempted to
brain the rabbit with a small club, whereupon Caz had hopped out of the way,
offered his apologies, and stuck out a size twenty-two foot. His assailant had
gone tumbling over it.
"Dreadfully sorry," murmured Caz. His apology did nothing to stem the rush which
followed as the two groups of encircling humans attacked.
The narrowness of the street simplified defensive tactics. The set-upon arranged
themselves back to back in a tight circle and hacked away at their antagonists,
who threw themselves with shocking recklessness against swords and knives. The
light and sweat and screaming swam together around Jon-Tom. The duar was a heavy
weight bouncing under his arm as the blunt end of his staff-club sought out an