Jedit

Chapter 9

"I seek the library," said Johan without preamble.

"Library?" The woman had once been tall and robust, like most of the coastal folk, but middle age and many children had softened her. Her hair was more gray than blonde, and her robes were patched, puckered, and peppered with burn holes and stains.

"I own the only library in Buzzard's Bay. Forty-two books, I'm proud. See for yourself. I am Hebe, a sea sage, by the way. You are…?"

Disguised as the drab monk, Johan gave no name as he glanced^ around the room. Tilting shelves were jammed with bric-a-brac. A stuffed seagull perched atop a conch shell. Strings of dried starfish dangled from the low ceiling. A horseshoe crab shell served as a dish for smaller shells. Tables were heaped with dried seaweed and blowfish, and nets bulging with oddments hung in comers. A slovenly bed and stool were all the furniture. In the corner hearth, a driftwood fire burned blue and green. The room reeked of sea salt and spoiled fish, for it occupied a loft above a fishmonger's market.

A clever, ruthless man, Johan could be pleasant when it served, yet politeness got him nothing. He studied the clutter as the sage fiddled, sizing similar shells on a board propped between tables. Alone most of the day, she blathered at her company.

"You've the look of a scholar, poor and thin like me, ha ha. You're welcome to read my books, but only here. They were hard-won, hard as plucking a drowning man from storm surf. Three, I confess, I wrote myself. I track sightings of sea monsters, you see, and other odd things the fishermen report. Fairy lights, ghosts who walk on water, tritons, giant turtles. If it floats above or below the waves, I hear the tales. The ocean harbors a thousand secrets."

Sliding edgeways past stacks and heaps of objects, Johan laid a hand on a crooked shelf of books. "The library I seek belongs to another. Not this trash."

The tyrant hurled the bookshelf over. Volumes thumped and skittered on tables and the filthy floor. Shells and sponges and skate purses were smashed and scattered. Johan shoved over a table with his bare foot and wrenched strings of starfish from the ceiling.

"You… you barbarian!" Horrified, Hebe shrilled curses as she grabbed a gaff studded with a rusty shark hook. Johan scooped a heavy book from a table and slung it backhanded. The volume smacked Hebe in the face and bowled her against yet another table. Johan picked up a shark's jaw and slashed the woman across the forehead. As blood ran in her eyes, he hooked a foot to dump her on the floor.

Stamping one foot on Hebe's flabby neck, Johan pressed hard enough to strangle her, then let up a bit. "I ask you, where is the library?"

Wedged amid debris, suffocating, Hebe gasped, "You'll- never-"

"I always," corrected Johan.

Sticking two fingers in his mouth, he flicked them at the ceiling. Instantly there whispered down a fine mist all about the room. Droplets hissed louder as they settled on spilled books and seawrack. As the mild rain touched Hebe's face, she screamed as if burned and struggled valiantly. The evil mage only shifted his stance and mashed her throat harder. Smoke began to fizzle from tables and parchment. The old librarian struggled and writhed.

"It bums savagely, does it not, Hebe?" Johan's gleaming pate sported glistening raindrops at a half-inch removed, for his invisible aura shielded him. "Don't open your eyes, else you'll be blinded. Tell me, quickly, and I'll release you. Where lies the fabled library?"

"You'll s-suffer!" Shuddering, the tough old woman tried to protect her face with her elbows. "The t-townsfolk will f-find you-"

"You waste breath." Exasperated, Johan picked up the gaff with the rusty shark hook. He snagged the point through Hebe's scalp and began to pull, twisting. Blood flowed. "The library is where?"

"Ar-Arboria! Aghh!" Helplessly Hebe flailed her arms as iron tore and acid ate her flesh. Squirming in pain, she babbled, "D-deep in the forest! Fol-follow the coast south to Fulmar's Fort! Wh-where the river spills to the sea, follow its b-banks into the depths! But you'll never survive Shauku! Oh, p-please, release m-me! I'm dying!"

"True, but too slowly." Still pinning the sage, Johan picked up a thick book no bigger than his hand. Stooping, he struck the sages nose, making her yelp, then shoved the book in her mouth and stamped with his free foot. Choking, the sage bucked and shuddered but couldn't squirm free. Johan added, "I'll release you dead, I'm afraid. I couldn't bear you babbling my destination to others."

Patiently Johan pressed on the old woman's face until finally, with a chest-breaking sigh, she fell limp. Climbing off his murder victim, Johan uttered a single word to dispel the rain of death. Puddled with poison, parchments were curled and browned, shells had turned dark, seaweed and oddments had shriveled.

Johan stepped to the hearth fire. He planned to strew live coals to fire the room and cover his tracks but halted. Just as he'd left cripples behind in the pine forest to spread tales of terror, here too the sage's body might rattle his pursuers.

"Even better," murmured the murderous mage, "her death might aid my cause immeasurably."

Nodding grimly, Johan left clutter and corpse lying, then passed out the door and pulled it shut. Tracing a line around the doorframe, he sealed the portal with a simple binding spell. The spell would remain until magically dispelled, which he doubted any in Buzzard's Bay could do. Mortals would need to batter down the door.

Descending the narrow stairs, Johan passed through the echoing fish house on the ground floor and outside into the narrow twisted street. As always, the sky was overcast, the buildings drear, and the streets a welter of mud and rushed seashells.

Buzzard's Bay was a huge bite in the eternally battered Storm Coast, one of very few safe harbors, and hardly safe at that. The bay was riddled with jagged rocks, many lurking just below the churning surface. Seamounts of scoured granite thrust from the water to encircle this southern arm of the bay, called the Witch's Weir, where squatted this port. Hunkered on a long ragged spit, the town was lashed steadily by the western wind as it swirled around the weir. Even the landward retreat climbed a fierce slope of stone before meeting a green plateau that verged on Arboria, the endless pine forest to the south.

Curious, thought Johan. He'd held pinefolk in his grasp yet had neglected to question them about the location of Shauku's fabled library-an unfortunate oversight. Yet he consoled himself while striding the mucky streets.

"No matter. Destiny led me here. It will lead me to win over Shauku."

Built to withstand wind and shed snow, the town's dwellings consisted mostly of first stories of rough stone and second stories of pine boards or slabs, all roofed with cedar shakes green with moss and white from salt spray. In places the town elders had strewn clam and oyster shells tamped into hardpack, but most streets were mires of black mud studded with ankle-twisting stones. Behind every shop and house ran rickety drying racks hung with fillets of split cod, herring, and hake that jittered and fluttered in the wind and gave the town a distinct odor. Johan's party had taken refuge from the wind in a tavern called the Dandysprat, and to this hostel the mage plodded, sinking in muck at every step.

As the day waned, the tavern grew rowdy with fishermen and loggers celebrating the day's end with ale. Johan had no use for frivolity but stuck to business. Luckily, as ordered, Johan's huntsman waited at an alley, then slunk into it. Johan joined him.

Funneled by nearby buildings, the wind whistled furiously behind the tavern but not enough to carry away the stink of privies and fish. Johan's huntsman pointed out two men lurking under a drying rack in sunset shadows.

No names were exchanged. The men might have been brothers but were not. Everyone in Buzzard's Bay was descended from the same stock: tall, blond, thick-limbed, slow of speech but keen of mind, for the sea didn't forgive fools. Careless clods sank beneath the brine, leaving the clever alive and cautious. These two wore thick quilted jackets and fur hats and vests. The only difference showed in their footwear-the one covered with silver mackerel scales wore sea boots, while the other wore knee-high riding boots. Both their mustaches blew in the breeze.

Muzzy from ale, the huntsman said, "These are the blokes you want, milord. One is feared on land and one on sea."

Johan studied the men as if buying cattle. The locals stared back.

Johan asked, "You shan't shrink from an odious task? I can reward smart agents who do a good job but make it look like another's work."

The two coasters nodded. The scale-speckled corsair said, "If you can pay, milord, we can deliver. We're not men to shirk or question. The Drumfish is ready to sail at your whim."

"And my gang's armed and awaiting orders," added the highwayman.

Nodding, the bony mage fished in his pockets and doled out a handful of gold and electrum that made eyes bulge. Immeasurably wealthy, Johan seldom dealt with money, so he never knew its value. He'd only asked his scribe for "enough coin to buy two crews." Hurriedly the assassins split the haul.

Johan also gave a puffy leather pouch to the highwayman. Light as thistledown, it was stoppered with a wooden peg sealed with beeswax.

The mage warned, "It's full, so don't peek until it's needed. Let the contents float downwind into a crowd to rile them."

To the pirate, Johan gave a small nautilus shell lacquered black. The mouth was also stoppered with wax. "If you engage in a sea battle, break the seal and pitch it overside. T'will help you win."

Johan lifted his eagle's beak eastward. "Your prey are a roving pack of mercenaries and a talking tiger. They will arrive within days. Adira Strongheart is their leader."

"I've heard tell o' her," said the corsair. "Sovereign of the Sea of Serenity, some fancy. I doubt she wrestles sharks for supper."

"So spake many a man whose bones are coral," chided Johan. "Don't underestimate her, nor the tiger. His brain is keener than yours, I'll warrant, and he can sow slaughter like no man. Just do as you're paid. Kill whom you can of Adira's crowd and loot their carcasses. I'll add a further reward for their scalps."

"Where'll we collect that?" asked the brigand, but Johan ignored him and turned away to enter the tavern.

Having gotten what he needed from Buzzard's Bay, Johan would roust his entourage and shake this town's muck from his feet. No need to linger and risk running into Strongheart and Ojanen. Lesser men could scotch those annoyances. Johan had a continent to conquer.

In four centuries, Buzzard's Bay had seen many strange sights wash from the sea and descend from the mountains, but none so strange as a tame tiger walking on two legs, calm as if going to market.

As the sun set three days later, Adira's troupe plodded into town on horses weary from crabbing down the switchback road from the mountains. Fishermen and loggers, foaming jacks in hand, stepped from taverns and shops to see the tiger-man. Many locals and children trailed the party just to watch what happened.

' Having sailed here before, Adira steered straight for Seafarer's Quay, famous all over Dominaria for its deep bottom and welcoming Adventurers' Guildhall. While the humans straggled on horses sinking hock-deep in mud, Jedit Ojanen padded alongside, watching everywhere, learning as he went. Murdoch and Simone and Virgil licked their lips to see brimming mugs in local hands. By the time the party reached the guildhall at the quayside, half a hundred coasters formed an impromptu audience.

The tavern was huge, built like a lord's mead hall, stout stone on the first floor able to withstand a battering ram, with beams and stucco for the second and third floors. Up there, separated by sexes, weary travelers could stretch out on thin pallets and sleep in safety.

Sliding off her mount on stiff legs, Adira signaled Heath to accompany her and the rest to stay with the horses. Ignoring her newfound audience, the irate chief pushed into the hall.

Fifty Buzzard's Baymen faced nine pirates, and all studied Jedit Ojanen to see what he'd do. The tiger stood stock-still, whiskers shivering in the wind, and studied the town, only the second big human enclave he'd seen since leaving Efrava.

Locals sipped beer while Adira's pirates drooled. The pirates were amused at how the locals all looked alike, like one big family. Indeed, they all resembled Lieutenant Peregrine, whose ancestors hailed from here. Adira's pirates, on the other hand, were of all sizes and colors and dress, though the bay folk were used to seeing every race descend a gangplank. But the upright tiger provoked curiosity too hot to hold in.

Clearing his throat, a red-faced man asked, "Where're ye from?"

He'd asked Murdoch, who still wore remnants of his green-gold uniform, now tattered. The sergeant scratched his jaw and replied, loud enough for the whole crowd to hear, "Yerkoy."

"Ye're all from Yerkoy?" asked the man in amazement. That seaport lay halfway across Jamuraa.

"No, just me," said Murdoch.

"Well, I didn't mean just you!" chided the man. "I meant all of ye!"

"Oh." Murdoch's face was wooden, and even his comrades wondered if he teased or not. "We're from all over."

"I can see that!" snapped the local. "Y'er every color from sun-baked to half-dead! What I meant was-"

"Where'd we catch the tiger?" Murdoch grinned, and people relaxed.

"Aye, that's it!" Glad to gain ground, the local asked, "Aye. Where'd you get this big cat?"

"Palmyra," said the sergeant. "We found him in an alley. The rats in Palmyra grow big, you see, big as dogs. So the cats that eat the rats grow big too. You wouldn't believe it, but when this one was bom, he was not but a ball of fluff you could cup in your palm."

"No," said the local, not smiling, "I wouldn't believe it."

"Oh." Murdoch pretended to think. His comrades stared, and Simone beamed, glad to see another joker. "Well, you could always ask him."

"Ask who?" asked the local. Townsfolk watching the exchange were bewildered or bemused, but all were entertained.

"Ask the tiger."

Sister Wilemina rolled her eyes and huffed in disgust at Murdoch's lack of manners. Jasmine snorted. Lieutenant Peregrine drummed her fingers on her saddle and shook her helmeted head at the sergeant's puckish sense of humor. Drawn by the crowd, more locals wandered up to hear the strange conversation.

The bayman sipped beer for time to think. Finally he said, "The tiger talks?"

"I think so." Murdoch looked dim, then asked Jedit, "Do you talk?"

Having listened the while, the tiger turned baleful green eyes on the former sergeant. "No."

"Oh." Murdoch turned back to the local. "Sorry."

"What?" asked the local. "No, wait. The tiger does so talk!" To Jedit, he asked, "You. Where d'ya hail from?"

Jedit Ojanen stood unmoving except for his tail, always with a mind of its own, that swished and lashed, betraying his agitation at unwanted attention. The tail tip spanked a horse's flank and made it jump.

Finally, with hundreds of eyes watching, Jedit conceded, "Efrava."

"E-far-va?" asked the man. "Where under the stars is that?"

"Near Yerkoy," rumbled the tiger.

"What?" It was Murdoch's turn to be surprised. "It is not! I'd know if a herd of talking tigers lived nearby!"

"Perhaps you're not really from Yerkoy," countered Jedit.

"I am so!" Hoisted by his own petard, Murdoch grew indignant.

Locals hooted, chuckled, giggled, and buzzed. One man said to the red-faced spokesman, "Want us to chuck him in the bay, Cefus?"

"Eh?" The local snorted and killed his beer. "No, he's all right. For a bloke from Yerkoy. If so."

"Hey, you-" sputtered Murdoch.

The big door swung open, and Adira Strongheart tramped out with Heath in tow. "That's set! We can spend the night." She stopped. "What sort of trouble have you been up to?"

"Nothing," said Murdoch.

Suspicious, Adira told her crew, "We'll bunk here the night. Haul your kits up the stairs, men on the second floor, women on top. You can eat here or elsewhere. We'll ask after you'know-who on the morrow. We know he's in town."

"No, we don't." Jedit's announcement made everyone look up. "His spoor leads into town, it's true, for I sniffed it out. Nor does it lead back out the mountain road. Yet the one we seek may have departed by another route, or even on a boat."

If Jedit expected a reward for his canny observation, he was disappointed. Adira glared. "Don't contradict your captain, sailor, or I'll have you lashed to the grating and given a new coat of stripes. Clear?"

"Aye aye, cap'n." Simone joked to break the tension. "But there's something else we should do first."

"What?" snapped Adira.

"Pitch Murdoch in the bay!" crowed Simone with a laugh. "What say, you all?"

"Aye!" shouted near two hundred people.

Murdoch yelped uselessly as, grabbed and hoisted over a hundred heads by locals and pirates alike, he was ferried to the edge of the quay and lobbed at the scummy water to land with a tremendous splash.

Adira Strongheart stood by her horse, saddlebags in hand, flabbergasted by the queer action. Turning to her straight-faced crew and one bland tiger, she fixed on Peregrine, someone with sense.

"What was that all about?"

The lieutenant bobbed her head. "Would you believe they're all drunk?"

"The locals?" carped Adira. "Yes! But my crew, no! We just got here!"

Wilemina said, "Murdoch makes friends wherever he goes."

Adira gave up. Slinging her saddlebags over her shoulder, she sighed, "I was going to warn you to steer clear of the locals, but never mind."

"Plains of plenty, what's that wretched stink?"

"Arrgh! It's putrid! Only one thing can smell that dratted rotten, and that's a fishgut-gobbling cat!"

The insults came from down the dark street in hoarse nasal tones not quite human. Sergeant Murdoch, in dry clothes, Virgil, and Jedit Ojanen paced in semi-darkness under the stars. The men wore their weapons, a sword and boarding axe, not so much for protection as to keep them from being stolen back in the guildhall. Boots plodded in gooey mud while the tiger padded silently.

"Something tells me those jabs are aimed at you, Jedit." Murdoch didn't turn around to see who blustered.

"Oh so?" asked Jedit. He towered a full head above the two men, who were not small. "Am I the only cat in Buzzard's Bay?"

"Let's not start that again." Murdoch thumped the side of his head. "I'm still daubing sea water out of my ears."

The scruffy Virgil, always expecting trouble, cast a glance over his shoulder. "It's cavalry."

"Cavalry? That don't make sense." Murdoch turned to squint into darkness.

The only light came from slits through house or shop shutters, for the town was buttoned for bad weather. The sky was solidly overcast, with no moon or starlight. The trio had been strolling toward the next pool of light, the next tavern. They'd been sampling local brews and, after fourteen mugs, had yet to be satisfied. Murdoch insisted they test every pub in Buzzard's Bay if need be, though pubs numbered in the scores. The going was slow, for the men wove, and the mud was gluey.

"Ahoy, cat!" called the coarse voice, closer. "Your kind ain't welcome in this port! You're liable to get your tail tied in a knot or your fur set afire! You hear me, meat breath?"

Jedit waited in the street, apparently without worry. Virgil peered at the huge tiger, at the distant light and sanctuary, then at a seagull croaking overhead, for he was drunk. Murdoch put out a hand toward a building to steady himself, but the building was five feet away, and he missed. Then he saw what approached them.

"Polish my toenails! It is cavalry! Or-no, it's not! Hoy, what be you loudmouths?"

"Loudmouths? We be centaurs, manling, of the Oyster River clan, and the heartiest soldiers to ever strap on a sword!" The booming voice filled the narrow twisting street. "And we be enemies of any cat warriors foolish enough to show their twitching tails among decent folk!"

"Ah," agreed Murdoch. "I see why."

Immense, dark-faced and dark-bearded, with shaggy coats and stiff manes, the centaurs wore only coarse shirts overlaid by leather straps and tall helmets with forward-pointing fins. Lethal cutlery jingled from their harnesses, but they scarcely seemed to need weapons. Between four thudding hooves like mallets and brawny bare arms like gorillas, the man^horses looked capable of tearing down a tavern or kicking it flat.

Halting in mud on eight stout legs, they glared down long noses at Jedit Ojanen, who for once had to look up to meet another's eyes. Despite the street-blocking pair, Jedit stood with striped arms folded across his furry white chest. A night breeze whiffled his whiskers, but in no other way did he move.

Caught between a tiger and two horses, who could only be mortal enemies, Murdoch and Virgil wished they were sober, if only to scramble clear.

The sergeant gulped, "Uh, gentlemen. Gentlebeings. Our friend, the cat here, means no harm-"

"No harm!" interrupted a centaur. His black eyes were invisible in the gloom, but he snorted, or whinnied, down his long nose. "Cats are meat eaters, ain't they? So cat warriors must be too, though they're a bastard mix of two races not half as good as either! Centaurs always war against cat warriors, you know. We just can't stand the ugly sight of 'em or their maggot-gagging stench!"

"Aye!" brayed the other. Both centaurs had been sampling beers themselves, to judge by the fermented cloud swirling about. "I've killed half a dozen cats meself! Some I stomped to death on the battlefield as they fled squawling! The others I just ran down like chickens, then laid a noose around their necks and dragged 'em to death! Thirsty work, that! Cats weigh too much from all that meat eatin'!"

One of the centaurs jigged to one side and clopped forward. Casually, Jedit was braced on two sides. One centaur seemed to scratch himself, but in fact his hand brushed a brass-hilted sword nearly six feet long. The other also scratched, giant hands lingering on a rope or bullwhip coiled at his harness.

"Men," blurted Murdoch, and hoped that wasn't an insult. "We're all fellow soldiers here, all comrades at liberty for a night on the town. What say we go into that tavern-uh, over there-and I'll buy the first round."

"I've drunk enough beer for one night," said Jedit Ojanen suddenly. "I fancy something thicker. Horse blood, say."

Murdoch and Virgil threw themselves flat in mud as all hell broke loose.

A tiger's coughing scream and two harsh brays split the night. A sword slithered from a scabbard like a cobra spitting. A bolo rope spun a sizzling circle, so leaded ends smacked the eaves of a house. The two men cowering in mud waited to hear the sinister strike of steel or lead on furred flesh, then lifted their heads as both centaurs neighed in dismay.

A homeowner had unwisely thrown open a door to see what the noise might be, casting a shaft of candlelight. Thus Murdoch and Virgil saw a sight to thrill their alcohol-drenched blood.

Jedit Ojanen, screaming and slavering with long white fangs, had bunched corded thighs and shot straight into the air as if launched from a catapult. The tiger-man touched down briefly on the salt-streaked shingles of the cottage, then vaulted into the air at the two enraged centaurs. Dodging a whirling bolo and thrusting sword blade, Jedit crashed full-length on the shoulders of the first centaur, a thousand pounds of feline muscle and bone. The massive man-horse was rocked off all four hooves. Bashed sideways, he fetched into his comrade.

Murdoch almost had a hand crushed by a hoof, then the two humans scuttled free like mud-caked hermit crabs. Flopping on their butts, trying not heave up their guts, they watched the breathtaking battle.

Far better able to see by night than the big-eyed horsemen, and not hampered by mud sucking at his feet, Jedit had all the advantage in the air. He hooked his claws deep into the shoulder of the first centaur even as he swiped the second. Slashed and surprised, the assailants were knocked together like two toppling trees and almost spilled in a tangle of eight legs. Black claws ripped furrows in the far side of one centaur's head, nearly tearing a pointed ear from a skull. Blood scented the air like seasalt. Yet Jedit had only begun to fight. Using his opponent's weight against them, the tiger hung on grimly with both hands and convulsed the muscles in his massive chest. Two long-nosed heads crashed together, and the centaurs staggered.

Still, the horse-men were accomplished soldiers and could attack while being attacked. Jedit was forced to leap upward or feel six feet of steel lance in his belly. As it was, the second centaur, bleeding from one ear like a harvest pig, nearly decapitated his partner by thrusting blindly with the long sword. The first centaur snapped his bolo. Three leaded weights whipped the air dangerously. One snagged Jedit's ankle as he leaped into the sky.

Laughing harshly, the centaur wrenched on his bolo to yank the tiger down under punishing hooves. Yet Jedit was barely discommoded. As he dropped, he twisted as only a cat can and flicked a massive paw that severed the cord. In the same moment, rather than land on the ground where he was vulnerable, Jedit pounced on the second centaur's haunches.

The horse-man shrieked as claws rent his hide with long gashes. He stabbed wildly behind his head to kill the cat, but Jedit was already gone, having squatted, flexed, and leaped, all as silent as a butterfly.

Landing on all fours atop the cottage roof opposite, Jedit scrambled up wooden shingles like a monkey. Two weights of a snapped bolo whickered after him but missed. Then a six-foot sword was flung his way like an arrow. Yet Jedit could watch one way while dashing another, and he swerved his hips to let the sword flash by. Jedit chuckled, further enraging his foe.

"Come back and fight, coward!" called one of the centaurs, grabbing for a throwing knife at his harness.

"Stand like a man, you yellow-bellied fiend!" called the other illogically. "Drop back down, and we'll trounce you!"

Whatever the centaurs expected, they got more than they bargained for. Jedit Ojanen had reached the peak of the cottage. Doubtless the man-horses thought the cat warrior fled. Instead he paused by a small chimney of battered brick that emitted a savory smell of fish stew and biscuits.

"Fight, you say?" called Jedit with a fang-creased leer. "Very well! Catch!"

So saying, the tiger laid powerful mitts on the brick chimney, grunted and twisted, ripped it loose from the house, then lobbed the chimney to crown the centaurs.

The two attackers raised arms before faces just in time. Dozens of disintegrating bricks bashed their forearms against their long, dark faces. Blood started as foreheads were banged and scraped and noses mashed. Bricks rapped the centaurs' breasts, tender legs, dancing hooves, flanks, and every other part, all to a horrific clatter and jingle of steel harness.

Fear of broken bones and further attack while half-blinded gave wing to instinct. The two centaurs lowered their chalky heads, lifted dinged and scratched legs, and bolted back the way they'd come in a churning slop of hooves in mud.

Gradually the night grew quiet except for a distant drumming as the centaurs reached hardpack. A few doors creaked open. Local baymen and women gaped in wonder at the tiger who dropped from a roof light as thistledown, then calmly licked his paw to smooth his orange-striped fur.

So fast and furious had the battle been, over in minutes, that Murdoch and Virgil still sat stupidly on wet rumps in chilly mud. Shaking their heads in disbelief, the men unstuck themselves as locals in nightshirts or blanket coats gathered to marvel.

Except one, who declared, "That was the quickest, slickest fighting I ever saw, cat man, but you owe me a new chimney."

"Wait," said Jedit, and he disappeared into the shadows behind the house. In seconds he came back to plant a sword at the homeowner's feet. The leather-wrapped handle stood just even with the man's goggling eyes. The tiger said, "Sell this. It must have value enough to buy you a new-chimmy, did you call it?"

While locals buzzed, Murdoch shook his head and scraped off mud. "Jedit, you're a wonder. Let me buy you a drink. Beer, not horse blood. You could be general of shock troops if you signed on with the army of Yerkoy. Eh? What is it, Virgil?"

"I'm just thinking," said the grizzled man, "we'd best be careful."

"Why?" asked Jedit Ojanen. "Surely you do not think those slue-footed fools will return for a rematch?"

"No," moped Virgil. "I'm thinking we better hole up in a tavern and lie low. Adira told us not to trouble the locals. If word'a this brawl reaches her ears, there'll be real hell to pay!"