"Somewhere where we can't be trapped," she replied. "For God knows even a blithering Lynchbany cop could piss and track the ruts of this wagon at the same time. Like any other creature we retreat to a lair and we don't fight unless we're cornered. And where we're going not even the police will dare come."
"I ain't sure I'd agree to that." Mudge sounded more hopeful than assured. "Tis more of an uneasy truce."
"Nonetheless," she countered, "we're far more likely to be safe there than anyplace else." Jon-Tom still gazed questioningly at her.
"We're going to the local branch of the intracounty association of disadvantaged self-employed artisans and underachievers," she explained.
"Thieves' Hall," Mudge grunted....
VIII
They spent the rest of the night curled beneath the thick blanket in the back of the wagon. Mudge and Talea were soon as motionless as her former victims, but Jon-Tom was too keyed up to sleep. Talea was silent as a stone, but a steady snoring in the form of a high-pitched whistle came from the gray-clad lump that was Mudge.
Jon-Tom lay on his back and studied the night sky, framed by the overhanging branches of the trees. Some of the constellations overhead were familiar, though out of place. Location as well as season was different here. It was a great comfort, however, to see the easily recognizable shape of Orion standing stalwart as ever against the interstellar vastness.
Once something with ghostly gray fluorescent wings passed between him and the moon, a delicate crinoid shape that might have been a reptile, or bird, or something unimaginable. It trailed thin yellow streamers behind it, and for an instant it glittered in the sky.
Then it was gone behind the trees. A low hiccoughing came from some concealed arboreal thing.
Tiny feet sounded like twigs on the road. Their owner paused to sniff at the wagon wheels before skittering onward. Sycamores and gingkos conversed in low philosophical woodtones. They lulled him finally into a deep, dreamless sleep....
He awoke to a welcome sun filtering down through the leaves and a weight on his left shoulder. Turning his head, he saw Talea snuggled up against him. She was sleeping on her side, resting on his shoulder, one arm thrown limply across his chest. He had mixed feelings about disturbing the sculpture.
However... they had a destination. He moved a little. Her eyes fluttered, body stirred. She blinked, simultaneously taking note of both him and proximity. As she pulled away, she rubbed sleep from her eyes.
"Easy night," she murmured thickly, "though I've had softer beds."
"Me too." To his surprise he saw that Mudge was already wide awake. He had no idea how long the otter had lain there watching them.
"Best we be on about our business," the otter said brightly. "The Lynchbany lockups ain't particularly persistent, but if it was a slow night a few ambitious types might've elected to come follow." He stood up, gestured back down the road.
"Personally I think we're well clear of 'em, but you never can be sure."
"Right." She was climbing into the driver's seat. "Best never to take chances with a skunk."
Shortly they were trundling once more down a road that had become hardly more than a trail. They'd turned off, he noted, on a branch that was almost devoid of wagon ruts. Their absence was compensated for by large rocks that did nothing to help his kidneys.
They paused later for a Spartan breakfast of bread, jerky, and a kind of dried fruit that resembled lime but tasted much better. Then off again.
It was noon when Talea indicated they'd arrived. Jon-Tom peered ahead between her and the otter. "I don't see anything."
"What did you think?" she asked archly. "That a place like the local branch of the intracounty... a place like Thieves' Hall would announce itself with flying banners and a brass band?"
They turned down a still narrower path and penetrated as deeply into the dense woods as trees would allow. After a half-mile walk they came to a crude corral filled with an astonishing assortment of reptilian mounts. Several hundred yards off to the right of this open-air stable Talea located a metal doorway. It lay half hidden beneath the roots of several massive oaks and was set directly into the rock face of a low-browed cliff.
She rapped hard on the metal three times with her open palm, waited, then repeated the knock.
Presently a small window opened in the top of the door. No face showed itself. It was easy enough for whoever was within to see outside without placing an eye invitingly near a possible knife thrust.
"Succor and surcease, comfort and respite to those who know how to live," said a voice from within.
"T' practice usury without interference," Mudge responded promptly. "T' get one's fair share. T' never givin' a sucker an even break."
There was a pause and then the door swung outward on rusty hinges. Talea entered first, followed by Mudge. Jon-Tom had to bend almost double to clear the ceiling.
Inside they confronted a muscular otter a couple of niches taller than Mudge. He inspected them cautiously, reserving particular attention for Jon-Tom.
"That one I don't know."
" 'E's a friend." Mudge smiled as he spoke. "An acquaintance from a far province, wot?" He did not elaborate on that, nor did he mention Clothahump.
The other otter blew his nose on the floor and turned perfunctorily away. They followed. Before long they passed a series of interlocking tunnels. These all seemed to devolve into a much larger central cavern. It was filled with a noisy, raunchy, squalling crowd that made the patrons of the Pearl Possum look like nursery schoolers their first day away from home.
There was enough sharpened steel in that one room to fight a small war. A fair amount of dried blood on the stone floor showed that those instruments were frequently in use. In the enclosed area the noise was close to deafening. Not to mention the odor. He'd almost come to ignore the animal smells, but in that tight, poorly ventilated chamber, populated as it was by a less than usually hygienic assembly, it was overpowering.
"What do we do now?"
"First we find the president of the local chapter," Talea explained, "and pay our protection money. That allows us to stay here. Then we find a piece of unoccupied tunnel. There are hundreds of them honeycombing this hillside. We set up temporary housekeeping and lie low until the councilman has a chance to forget what happened to him.
"Of course, he may buy Nilanthos' explanation, but I wouldn't put it past his type to check out any citizen's reports for that night. That's where we could have trouble, remember. We'll wait here a couple of weeks until it all turns to memory-mush. Then we can safely leave."
At his look of distress, Mudge said, "Don't look so ill, mate. Crikey, 'tis only for a couple o' weeks." He grinned. "Lynchbany cops 'ave mem'ries as brief as their courage. But it do behoove us t' stay out o' sight o' casual travelers for a while. None save the completely daft are likely t' come within leagues o' this spot."
Jon-Tom focused on well-used swords and knives. "I can't imagine why not," he said drily, trying to hold his breath.
As it turned out they did not utilize Thieves' Hall for two weeks. It was less than a day before Jon-Tom made his mistake. It didn't seem like a mistake at the time, and afterward he was too confused to be sorry.
There was a game. It was common in Lynchbany and well known among those who preyed upon the townsfolk. It involved the use of triangular dice and a circle. There were no hidden complexities.
A good student like Jon-Tom had no trouble picking it up, after a few hours of careful study. He was still a mite hesitant about actually participating, but Talea was off somewhere chatting with friends and Mudge had simply disappeared. Left on his own and mentally exhausted, he was both bored and irritable. A little game playing would be good for him.
Clothahump's purse still contained a few tiny copperpieces, the remnants of the Mudge-directed spending spree that had enriched several of Lynchbany's merchants. Cutting an impressive figure in his flashing green cape, Jon-Tom leaned on his club-staff and studied one of the several co
ntinuous games before finally deciding to join.
The particular game he'd selected seemed to be the largest. With the greater number of participants he would have more opportunities between throws to study the play. No one objeeted to or commented on his joining. It was simply a matter of taking the place of a distraught lynx when the latter ran out of money and dropped out.
Through no particular skill (the fickleness of dice being everywhere constant) he did quite well. Dutifully, he concentrated on doing still better. So intent on the game did he become that he failed to notice that he was drawing something of a crowd of onlookers.
Players angrily left and were replaced by eager newcomers, full of fresh spirit and fresh cash. There were always nine or ten throwers seated or squatting around the circle.
The rock was cold against his backside, even through the leather pants. Not quite as chilled were the well-traveled coins beginning to stack up in front of him. For the first time in a long while he was not only relaxed but enjoying himself.
Much to the delight of the crowd, which always pulls for a big winner, he hit two nines in a row. Mutterings of magic came from a few of the other players. They remained mere mutterings. An aged bat named Swal hung himself from the overhead lamps. From there he could watch all the players. His opinion was well respected, Jon-Tom could tell, and his knowledge of magic extensive though he was no wizard himself. Very poor basketball players can make very fine coaches. Swal had a detailed knowledge of magic though he couldn't work any himself.
Nevertheless, one of the other players tried to turn the tide in his own favor, attempting to magic the dice before his turn to throw came up. Neither Jon-Tom nor any of the other players or onlookers caught the unnatural vibration, but the outraged Swal noticed it immediately.
"He muttered it softly, but I tasted the end of it," Swal explained to the crowd.
At that point Jon-Tom had a sampling of thieves' justice in a world where normal justice was not known for its temperance. A group of angry spectators hauled the screaming, protesting gopher out of sight. This was followed by a brief pause, then a single nerve-twisting screech. Wiping their paws and looking grimly satisfied, the vigilantes soon returned.
Another member of the game was throwing, and Jon-Tom had time to turn and ask an onlooker what had happened.
The tall rabbit leaned low on his shoulder. "Swal say that one mutter it softly. You no cheat in Thieves' Hall. Like cheat you brother, you know? I expect they make punishment fit the crime." Jon-Tom continued to stare questioningly up at the other.
The rabbit shrugged. "Since he whisper the formula, others probably cut out his tongue. If he done divinations with his hands, they would have cut them off. Same for eye, and so on."
"Isn't that kind of extreme? It's only a friendly game."
Oddly milky pink eyes looked down at him. "This an extreme business we all in, man. You know that. Difficult enough to get by without having to cope with cheating courts and sly lawyers. We can't stand backstabbingers among own family. Fair punishments like that," and he jerked a thumb back toward the region of the scream, "make sure fairness good sense. You stay healthy, hear; that one was lucky. What line you in?"
"Sorry... my dice," Jon-Tom said quickly.
The game continued. Sometimes he lost, more often he won. Now the continued absence of Talea and Mudge was making him nervous. He wondered if he dare take his winnings and drop out. Might not one of the game's big losers have a friend or associate in the crowd, ready to stick a small knife in Jon-Tom's back or accuse him of magic in order to protect his friend or boss?
But the tall rabbit remained close by, reassuring and urging him on. That was only natural, since he was betting along with Jon-Tom's rolls. Yet Jon-Tom's thoughts kept returning to that horrible scream, kept imagining the knife coming down, the blood spurting....
Swal the bat kept his post. Occasionally he would shift his perch on the hanging lamps or tug at the green-feathered cap secured by a strap to his head. His eyes roved steadily over the players.
There were no more cries of cheating. The pile of coins in front of Jon-Tom continued its steady growth.
Then there was an unexpected pause in the action. A very sleek, lupine figure stumbled into the playing circle. The players scrambled to protect their coins from uncertain feet. She seemed outraged and embarrassed, a condition not helped by the catcalls and hoots from the male and female spectators. The bitch replied to the insinuations with a rustle of petticoats and some choice execrations of her own.
Jon-Tom looked to his rabbit friend for an explanation.
"Sorry, man. I wasn't paying attention. But I think I see what's going on. See that fox over there?" He pointed to a tired but well-dressed thrower seated across the circle. Only two or three small silver coins lay on the stone in front of him.
"He out of money I see, but he want to stay in. You know the type. So he bet the girl."
Jon-Tom frowned. "Is she a slave?"
That prompted a mildly angry response. "What you think we are here, barbarians? Only the Plated Folk keep slaves. No, most likely he gotten her to agree to temporary contract." The rabbit winked. "Most likely a couple of nights or so."
"She doesn't look very willing," said Jon-Tom critically.
"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.
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