Exceptions to Reality_ Stories - Alan Dean Foster [78]
The otter’s sensitive nose appraised their surroundings as his sharp eyes continued to scan the darkness. “No castle this, mate. Smells bleedin’ nasty, it does.” He looked up at his friend. “Where the bloody ’ell are we?”
“I don’t know.” Thoroughly bemused, Jon-Tom walked out onto a sidewalk and turned a slow circle. “This should be Namur Castle, or at least its immediate vicinity.” His eyes fell on a pair of rain-swept signs. Across the street, one hanging from an iron rod proclaimed the location of the CORK & CASTLE—PUB. Light from within reached out into the street, as did muted sounds of polite revelry. The second sign hung above the entrance to the stairway from which they had emerged. It was a softly illuminated red-and-white circle with a single red bar running horizontally through it. The hairs on the back of his neck began to stiffen.
They had stumbled into an unsuspected path back into his own world.
III
Sounds of casual conversation reached the three stunned travelers. Retreating to the top of the gum-spotted, urine-stained stairway, he peered back down. Two young couples were mounting the steps from the Underground, chatting and laughing about the casual inconsequentialities of a life he himself had long ago been forced to relinquish. He looked around worriedly.
“We can’t go back down this way. We’ve got to hide.”
Stromagg looked baffled. “Why? More monsters come?”
“No, no. Somehow the song has opened an entrance through into my world. You and Mudge can’t be seen here. Only humans talk and make sense here.”
Unimpressed, Mudge let out a snort. “Who says ’umans make sense anywhere?” His nose twitched. “I thought this place stank.”
“Hurry!” Espying an alley off the main street, Jon-Tom led his friends away from the subway entrance.
It was dark in the rain-washed passageway, but not so dark as to hide the overcoated sot standing with his bottle amid the daily deposit of debris expelled by the establishments that lined the more respectable street on the other side. Leaning up against the damp brick, he waved the nearly empty container at the new arrivals. Jon-Tom froze.
“Evenin’ t’you, friends.” The drunk extended the bottle. “Share a swig?”
Stromagg immediately started forward, forcing Jon-Tom to put out an arm to restrain the bear. “You two stay here!” he whispered urgently. Approaching the idling imbiber, he adopted a wide smile, hoping the man was too far gone to notice Jon-Tom’s strange attire.
“Excuse me, sir. Can you tell us exactly where we are? We’re kind of lost.”
Squinting through the rain, the inebriated reveler frowned at him. His breath, Jon-Tom decided, was no worse than what he had experienced numerous times in the company of Mudge and his furry drinking buddies.
“What are you, tourists?” The drinker levered himself away from the wall. “Bloody ignorant tourists! You’re in Knightsbridge, friend.”
“Knightsbridge?” Jon-Tom thought hard. The name sounded sufficiently castle-like to jibe with his spellsong, but it did not square with what he had just seen. “Where is that?”
“‘Where is that?’” the drunk echoed in disbelief. “London, man! Where did you think you were?” Squinting harder, he finally caught sight of the very large otter and far larger armored grizzly standing silently behind his questioner. His bloodshot eyes went wide enough for the small veins to flare. “Oh, gawd.” Letting the nearly empty bottle fall from his suddenly limp fingers, he whirled, stumbled and almost fell, and vanished down the alley. They heard him banging and crashing through assorted trash receptacles and boxes for several minutes.
Picking up the bottle, Mudge sniffed the contents, made a disgusted face, shrugged, and promptly downed the remaining contents before Jon-Tom could stop him. Wiping his lips, he eyed his friend meaningfully.
“You spellsang us ’ere, mate. Now you bleedin’ well better sing us a way back.”
Jon-Tom looked helpless. “We could try the way we came. Maybe the creatures in the other tunnel have gone. I don’t know what else to do.” Discouraged