marten presciently.
Jon-Tom ignored the comment. “Where would a visitor
go for a little harmless fun and entertainment in Timswitty?”
“Well now,” replied the marten primly, “I am a family
man myself. You might try the Golden Seal. They offer
folksinging by many species and occasionally a string trio
from Kolansor.”
“You don’t understand.” Jon-Tom grinned insinuatingly.
“I’m looking for a good time, not culture.”
“I see.” The marten sighed. “Well, if you will go down
the main street to Born Lily Lane and follow the lane to its
end, you will come to two small side streets leading off
into separate cul-de-sacs. Take the north close. If the smell
and noise isn’t enough to guide you further, look for the
small sign just above an oil lamp, the one with the carving
of an Afghan on it.”
“As in canine or cloth?”
The marten wet his lips. “The place is called the
Elegant Bitch. No doubt you will find its pleasures suita-
ble. I wouldn’t know, of course. I am a family man.”
“Of course,” said Jon-Tom gravely. “Thanks.”
As he made his solitary way down the dimly lit main
street, he found himself wishing Talea was at his side.
Talea of the flame-red hair and infinite resourcefulness.
Talea of the blind courage and quick temper. Did he love
her? He wasn’t sure anymore. He thought so, thought she
loved him in return. But she was too full of life to settle
down as the wife of an itinerant spellsinger who had not
yet managed to master his craft.
Not long after the battle of the Jo-Troom Gate, she had
regretfully proposed they go their separate ways, at least