Exceptions to Reality_ Stories - Alan Dean Foster [79]
The exit back onto the street was blocked.
“A minute of your time, friend.”
There were three of them. All younger than Jon-Tom, all more confident, two clearly high on something stronger than liquor. The speaker held a switchblade, open. The larger boy flashed a small handgun. The girl between them wielded a disdainful smirk.
Jon-Tom scrutinized them all and did not much like what he saw or what he sensed. “We don’t want any trouble. We’re just on our way home.”
The boy with the blade nodded contentedly. “American, is it? Good. I knew I heard American accents at the party. You’ll have traveler’s checks. Americans always carry traveler’s checks.” He extended the hand that was not holding the switchblade. “Hand ’em over. Also any cash. Also your watch, if you’re wearing one. Your friends, too. Then you can go safely back to the stupid costume ball that your snooty friends wouldn’t let us into.”
Jon-Tom tensed. “I haven’t got any traveler’s checks on me. Or any cash, either. At least, not any you could use here.”
“American dollars suit me just fine, friend.” The kid gestured agitatedly with the open hand. “Hurry it up. We ain’t got time for talk.” His gaze flicked sideways. “Maybe you’ll get it if I cut the kid, here.” He lunged toward Mudge.
Effortlessly, the otter bent the middle of his body out of the way. As the switchblade passed harmlessly to his left, he drew his short sword. Steel flashed in the dim light of the street.
Alarmed, the bigger boy raised his pistol. Emerging from the mist behind him, an enormous paw clamped over both weapon and hand. Stromagg squeezed. Bones popped. Startled, the big kid let out a subdued, girlish scream. Bared teeth dripping saliva, the grizzly put another paw around the punk’s neck, lifted him bodily off the ground, and turned him. As he got his first glimpse of what had picked him up, the street kid’s eyes bugged out and frantic gurgling sounds emerged from his throat. The bear drew the boy’s face closer to his own. Low and dangerous, it was a voice that reeked of imminent death.
“You make trouble for Stromagg?” the grizzly growled.
“Urk…ulk…” Straining with both hands, legs flailing at empty air, the punk fought to disengage that huge paw from around his neck. Looking like white grapes, his eyes threatened to pop out of his head.
Holding his sword, Mudge easily danced around each swipe and cut of the switchblade that was thrust in his direction, not even bothering to riposte. Once, he ducked clear of a wild swing and in the same motion, bowed elegantly to the now incredulous and dazed girl, chivalrously doffing his peaked cap in the process. Furious, the boy threw himself in the unstrikable otter’s direction. Still bowing to the girl, Mudge brought the flat of his sword up between his young assailant’s legs. All thought of continuing combat immediately forgotten, the kid collapsed on the alley pavement and curled into a tight ball, moaning.
Still holding the bigger boy by his neck, Stromagg frowned and turned to Jon-Tom. “Uh, this one don’t talk no more.”
“Put him down.” Jon-Tom approached the now apprehensive girl.
“Please, don’t hurt me!” She gestured unevenly in the direction of the moaning coil of boy lying on the ground. “It was all Marko’s idea. He said we could make some easy money. He said American tourists never fight back.”
Mudge eyed her with interest. “Wot’s an American?”
“We’re not going to hurt you,” Jon-Tom assured her. “We just need some help getting home.” He looked past her. “Your friend said something about a costume ball?”
“A-around the corner. In the hotel.”
Thinking hard, Jon-Tom nodded at nothing in particular. “Might work. For a little while. I need some time to think. Thanks,” he told her absently. He started off in the indicated direction. With a wink at the girl that left her feeling decidedly confused, Mudge jogged after his friend. Gently lowering to the wet pavement the unconscious youth he was holding, Stromagg proceeded to follow.