one hand while trying to defend himself with his staff.
170
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
171
From within the storage closet outraged shouts were clear-
ly audible down on the street. The grating creaked loudly
as it bent on its hinges.
“They’ll ‘ave ‘im in a minute,” the otter muttered
helplessly, “if that old iron doesn’t break free first.”
Neither happened. Someone inside the supply room
jabbed outward with a spear. Jon-Tom leaned back to
dodge the deadly point, lost his grip, and fell. The staff
dropped from his fingers as he tumbled head over heels,
wrapped up in his lizard skin cape. Folly screamed. Lesser
wails came from dark shadows nearby as those few chil-
dren who’d paused to catch their breath saw their benefac-
tor fall.
But there was no sickening thud of flesh meeting stone.
Roseroar grunted softly. It was the only hint of any strain
as she easily caught the plunging Jon-Tom in both arms.
He pushed away the cape which had become wrapped
around his head and stared up at her.
“Thanks, Roseroar.” She grinned, set him down gently.
He adjusted his attire and recovered his staff. The duar,
still slung across his back, had survived the fall unscathed.
“‘Ell of a catch, luv!” Mudge gave the tigress a
complimentary whack on the rump, darted out of reach
before her paw could knock him silly. There were several
faces staring down at them from the open window, yelling
and issuing dire promises. Jon-Tom ignored them.
“Y’all okay?” Roseroar inquired solicitously.
“Fine.” He slung the cape back over his shoulders,