For Love of Mother-Not - Alan Dean Foster [98]
“Well, then, I will leave you,” the craftsman said. “Again, it’s good to see you back and healthy. The street wasn’t the same without you.”
“We monuments are hard to get rid of,” Mother Mastiff said. “Perhaps we’ll see ye tomorrow.”
“Perhaps,” Arrapkha agreed. He turned and left them, making certain that the front door locked behind him.
Once outside, Arrapkha drew his slickertic tight around his head and shoulders as he hurried hack to his own shop. He had no more intention of turning his friends over to the authorities, as he had been instructed, than he did of cutting the price of his stock fifty percent for some rich merchant. He would not hinder the police, but he would do nothing to assist them, either. He could always plead ignorance, for which he was famed in this part of the marketplace.
So tired; they looked so tired, he thought. It was the first time he could remember Mother Mastiff looking her age. Even the boy, who, though slight of build, had never before seemed exhausted by any labor, appeared completely worn out. Even that lethal pet that always rode his shoulder had looked tired.
Well, he would give them a few days to get their house in order and regain their strength. Then he would surprise them by taking them to Magrim’s for some tea and tall sandwiches and would tell them of the mysterious visit of the two Peaceforcers to their little street. It would be interesting to see what Mother Mastiff would make of that. She might welcome the interest of the authorities in her case—and then again, she might not. Not knowing the details of her history, Arrapkha could not be sure, which was why he had elected not to help those offworld visitors.
Yes, he decided firmly. Wait a few days and let them rest up before springing that new information on them. No harm in that, surely. He opened the door to his own shop and shut it against the night and the rain.
One day passed, then another, and gradually the shop again assumed the appearance of home as the mess the kidnapers had made was cleaned up. Comfortable in such familiar surroundings, Mother Mastiff regained her strength rapidly. She was such a resilient old woman, Flinx thought with admiration. For his part, by the second day he was once again venturing out into his familiar haunts, greeting old friends, some of whom had heard of the incident and some of whom had not, but never straying far from the shop lest even at this late date and in spite of his beliefs some surviving members of the organization that had abducted Mother Mastiff return, still seeking their revenge.
Nothing materialized, however, to give any credence to such anxieties. By the third day, he had begun to relax mentally as well as physcially. It was amazing, he thought, as he settled in that, night, the things that one misses the most during a long absence. Odd how familiar and friendly one’s own bed becomes when one has had to sleep elsewhere. . . .
It was the hate that woke Pip. Cold and harsh as the most brutal day winter could muster on the ice world of Tran-ky-ky, it shook the flying snake from a sound sleep. It was directed not at the minidrag but at its master.
Pink and blue coils slid soundlessly clear of the thermal blanket. Flinx slept on, unaware of his pet’s activity. Several hours remained until sunrise.
Pip rested and analyzed. Examining the minidrag lying at the foot of the bed, an observer might have believed it to be a reasoning being. It was not, of course, but neither was its mental capacity inconsequential. Actually, no one was quite sure how the mind of the Alaspinian miniature dragon worked or what profound cogitations it might be capable of, since no xenobiologist dared get close enough to study it.
Blue and pink wings opened, pleats expanding, and with a gentle whirr the snake took to the air. It hovered high over its master’s head, worried, searching, trying to pinpoint the source of the unrelenting malignancy that was poisoning its thoughts. The hate was very near. Worse, it was familiar.
There was a curved roof vent that Pip