around his throat. “I’ll hunt you to the ends of the world!
No one runs out owing Madam Lorsha!”
“Funny what she said about the ends of the world,”
Jon-Tom murmured as he followed the otter down endless
alleyways and turns. He was sure Mudge had memorized
30
Alan Dean Foster
this escape route before stepping inside the brothel. “That’s
where we’re going.”
“There you go again, mate,” said Mudge, “usin’ them
words like we and us.”
“I need your help, Mudge.”
They reached a main street and slowed to a walk as they
joined the crowd of evening strollers. Timswirty was a
good-sized town, much bigger than Lynchbany. It was
unlikely Madam Lorsha’s thugs would be able to find
them. Jon-Tom tried to hunch over and mask his excep-
tional height.
“Clothahump is deathly ill, and we must have this
medicine. I’m not any happier about making this trip than
you are.”
“You must be, mate, because I’m not goin’ to make it.
Don’t get me wrongo. You just ‘elped me clear out of a
bad spot. 1 am grateful, I am, but she weren’t worth
enough to make me put me life on the line for you, much
less for that old word-poisoner.”
They edged around a strolling couple. “I need someone
who knows the way, Mudge.”
“Then you needs some other bloke, mate. I ain’t never
been to Snarken.”
“I mean someone who knows the ways of the world,
Mudge. I’ve learned a lot since I’ve been here, but that’s
nothing compared to what I don’t know. I need your good
advice as well as your unconventional knowledge.”
“Sure you do.” Mudge puffed up importantly in spite of