I went outside, looked at the sign, came back.
“Certainly. But I’ll need some fresh wood.”
Mishka disappeared into the back of his shop. A moment later he reemerged, carrying a nice slab of oak.
“How about this?” he asked. “Ingemar the cabinetmaker gave it to me a few months ago. I’ve been meaning to use it for a new sign, but I never got around to it. I’ve even got some paint, but I’m not much of a painter, actually. Are you?”
I managed to make some modest but reassuring noises, while digging in my pack for my woodcarving tools. And so did the time pass pleasantly, with me carving and painting Mishka a new sign, while he busied himself with my boots. As he worked, Gwendolyn told him of our adventures, leaving out, I noticed, any mention of Wolfgang. This odd reticence left great holes in the narrative, but Mishka didn’t notice them, so upset was he when he heard of the imminent arrival of a Rap Sheet in Grotum.
“We’re doomed!” he cried, over and again. “Doomed! It’ll be the Rellenos all over again! The streets awash in blood! The executioners collapsing from exhaustion! The racks splintering from overuse! The whips worn to a nubbin! The dungeons bursting at the seams! Even here! Even the Mutt!”
But he only stopped working once, looking up at Gwendolyn intently.
“You’ve got to tell the General right away. Everyone else, too, of course. If you get the word out at the Free Lunch it’ll spread quick enough, sure, but you’ve still got to tell the General right away. Maybe he can think of something.”
“First the Free Lunch,” responded Gwendolyn. “Then I’ll talk to the General.”
Mishka made as if to argue, but then went back to his work. He finished with my boots at almost the same time I was done with his sign.
Mutual admiration followed.
“What a sign! What a sign!” exclaimed the old man, as I tried on my new boots. A perfect fit, they were, and very comfortable. Not fashionable, I admit. I noticed the old man was rummaging around again in his stacks of leather.
“Just give me a little time,” he muttered, “I’ll have another pair of boots ready.”
“What for?” I asked. “These are perfect.”
Mishka looked up, surprised. “Of course they’re perfect. Am I not Mishka? But a sign like that! It’ll be the best sign in town! Calls for two pair of boots, at the least.”
I waved him off. “Nonsense. The sign was a trifle, I assure you.”
Mishka wrung his hands. “Well. Well.”
“Relax, Mishka,” laughed Gwendolyn. “Benvenuti’s an artist, doesn’t have any proper sense of value. Leave it be. He’s happy with the deal, and besides, we’ve got to be off to the Free Lunch.”
“Oh, yes! I forgot. Well, then, at least let me obtain a cab for you. I insist!” he cried. “Such a great sign!” He rushed out into the street and began a fierce whistling.
A minute later he reentered the shop, a burly man in tow.
“Look who’s here, Gwendolyn!”
“Mario!”
The beefy newcomer swept his cap off his bushy head and stretched out his arms. Big as he was, he was almost dwarfed in Gwendolyn’s embrace.
“Take us to the Free Lunch, if you would, Mario. Oh, let me introduce you to Benvenuti Sfondrati-Piccolomini.”
Mario and I shook hands and exchanged pleasantries. He did not, I was relieved to note, seem to take offense at my Ozarine accent.
A minute later, Gwendolyn and I piled into the back seat of the cab, stowing our packs and my easel in the back. Mario eyed the easel with curiosity, but refrained from comment. He slapped his horse’s rump with a short whip and we jolted out into the streets of the Doghouse.
Within a few blocks, I had come to the conclusion that this was the oddest town I had ever seen. There seemed no rhyme or reason to anything about it—neither the layout of the streets, nor the mixture of the buildings scattered about. Despite its relatively small size, the town positively shrieked “polyglot” in a way in which even the great and cosmopolitan imperial city of Ozar didn’t. Still, the relations of the numerous inhabitants seemed quite cordial.