erupted more noise.
His friend caught a glimpse of the big taverner coming through the doorway he
absolutely filled, and the balding man whirled to exit by the outer door at a
speed that would have brought him in at least second in a seven-horse race.
Narvy kept on screaming.
“Damn,” Ahdio said. “I told you last night you were a noisy beerhead, and damned
if you aren’t even noisier by day and sober-I-guess. Now look what you’ve done!
You’ve disturbed that poor pussy’s nap and got him all angry.”
Narvy was flailing both arms, to one of which clung a chomping cat anchored by
twenty or so claws and an unknown number of needly teeth.
“Get him offf meee!” poor Narvy shrieked.
“Are you daft or jesting, man? I’m not wearing mailed gloves!”
Screaming enough for six, Narvy wheeled and limp-dashed out the open doorway in
the wake of his friend- who was already out of sight.
“Sweetboy! Let’s have a drink!”
Sweetboy opened his mouth, retracted all claws, hit the ground facing the rear
door of Sly’s Place (drooling a shred of red-smeared blue fabric), and became a
blur again until he was standing at his bowl. Finding it empty, he glanced
accusingly around and up. He was also licking at the blood on his mouth.
“Goo-ood boy, goo-ood kitty,” Ahdio crooned, using his foot to roll the barrel
aside. It was intact and pleasantly sloshy.
He drew two cups of beer and unwrapped the brineless sausage Ivalia had given
him. Sweetboy watched as if entranced, ears on the move. Ahdio had treacherously
saved back the six-inch length of sausage about the thickness of Throde’s staff.