yourselves with me around.”
Jon-Tom looked past her. She noticed the direction of
his gaze. “Jalwah wanted to come, too, bless his heart,
but there’s climbing to do and he’s more than a little worn
out. He’ll wait fo us and keep a watch on our supplies.”
“Fine,” said Jon-Tom, turning and starring to climb
again. “We’ll be back soon enough.”
“Aye, right quick,” Mudge agreed.
But they were both wrong.
x
The Friends of the Street occupied a complex of stone-and-
mortar buildings atop a seaward-facing hillside. It was
located in an area of comfortable individual homes and gar-
den plots instead of the slum Jon-Tom expected.
“Whoever endowed this place,” he told his companions
as they approached the main entrance, “had money.”
“And plenty o’ it,” Mudge added.
Several long, narrow, two-story structures were linked
together by protective walls. Blue tile roofs gleamed in the
moonlight. Dim illumination flickered behind a couple of
windows, but for the most part the complex was dark.
That wasn’t surprising. It was late and the occupants
should be in bed. Flowery wrought-iron trellises blocked
the front doorway, but there was a cord to be pulled.
Jon-Tom tugged on it, heard the faint echo of ringing from
somewhere inside. Leaves shuffled in tall trees nearby. The
thousand bright stars of Snarken electrified the shoreline
far below.
The door opened and a curious lady squirrel peeked out
at them. She was elderly and clad entirely in black. Black
lace decorated the cuffs of her sleeves. Hanging from her
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Alan Dean Poster