was made in gold. They left behind a delighted trader in
ships and a wharfmaster greedily counting out his commis-
sion. Jon-Tom had no regrets. He’d obtained the sloop for
a song.
By nightfall they were established in a clean, moderate-
ly priced harborfront inn.
“Wot now, mate?” Mudge dug into his dinner and
talked around mouthfuls of food. Jalwar displayed refined
table manners, while Roseroar ate with precision and
unexpected delicacy. Folly gobbled down everything set
before her and still finished well ahead of the others.
Confident she could take care of herself, Jon-Tom parceled
out a pocketful of coin and sent her off in search of attire
more suited to her new surroundings.
“We need to find out which way Crancularn lies,” he
told the otter as he sipped at his own tankard, “acquire
sufficient supplies, and be on our way. Clothahump is
waiting on us, and much as I’d like to, we can’t linger
here.”
“Ah’m ready fo some clean countryside,” agreed Roseroar.
“Ah’ve had enough o’ the ocean to last me fo a while.”
“You’re bound and determined to see this insanity
through to the bitter end, aren’t you, mate?”
“You know that I am, Mudge. I gave my word.”
“I was afraid you’d say somethin’ like that.” He sighed,
wiped gravy from his lips. “Wait ‘ere.”
The otter vanished into the main dining room of the inn,
returned moments later. He was not alone. With him was a
finely coiffed orangutan. This individual was dressed in
old but well-cared-for clothing. Lace ruffles billowed from
collar and sleeves. His orange beard was trimmed short