Exceptions to Reality (18 page)

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 and tentative, he started back toward the street. The rain was beginning to let up, turning to a heavy mist.

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. The girl stared after them. Then she began to shake.

The hotel was an older establishment, nonchain, and not particularly large. Motioning for his friends to remain behind, quiet and in shadow, Jon-Tom performed a hasty survey until he found what he was looking for: a side entrance that would allow them entry without the necessity of passing through the main lobby. He was further relieved when he saw two couples emerge. One pair were dressed in medieval garb, a third individual was clad in the guise of a large alien insect with a latex head, and the fourth was wearing the silken body stocking and pale gossamer wings of an oversized pixie. Having met real pixies, he almost paused to offer a critique of the latter costume, but settled for asking directions to the party. Returning to his companions and explaining the situation, he then boldly led them across the street.

Mudge remained wary. “’Ere now, mate. Are you sure this is goin’ to work?”

As they approached the ancillary entrance, Jon-Tom replied with growing confidence, “I’ve heard about these fantasy convention masquerades, Mudge. For tonight, many of those attending are in full costume. They’ll think you and Stromagg are fellow participants.” He glanced back at the bear. “Try and make yourself look a little smaller, Stromagg.” The grizzly obediently hunched his shoulders and lowered his head. “Also, there will probably be food.”

The bear’s interest picked up noticeably. “Food?”

No one challenged them as they entered through the side lobby. After asking directions of a pair of over-weight warriors who would have cut a laughable figure in Lynchbany Towne, they proceeded to a large auditorium. It was packed with milling, chatting participants, more than half of whom were in costume. A few glanced up at the arrival of the newcomers, but no one appeared startled or otherwise alerted that they were anything other than fellow costumers. While Mudge and Stromagg surveyed the scene with varying degrees of incredulity, Jon-Tom led them toward a line of tables piled high with snack foods. Sniffing the air, the grizzly’s expression brightened perceptibly.

“Beer! Stromagg smell beer.” Whereupon the bear, despite Jon-Tom’s entreaties, promptly angled off on a course of his own.

“Let the bleedin’ oversized ’ulk ’ave ’imself a drink,” Mudge advised his concerned companion. “’E deserves it, after the bloody ’elp ’e rendered back at the first tunnel. I wish I could—oi there! Watch where you’re goin’!”

The girl who had bumped into him was dressed as a butterfly. There was not much to her costume, and she was considerably more svelte than the erstwhile warriors the travelers had encountered in the hallway outside the auditorium. Mudge’s anger dissipated as rapidly as it had surged.

She gazed admiringly from him to Jon-Tom. “Hey,
love
your costumes. Did you make them yourselves?”

Seeking to terminate the conversation as quickly as possible, a hungry Jon-Tom eyed the long table. Food was vanishing rapidly from the stained white tablecloths. “Uh, pretty much, yeah.”

She eyed him with increasing interest, her wire-supported wings and other things bobbing with her movements. “You’re not writers or artists, because you don’t have name tags on.” She indicated the duar slung across Jon-Tom’s back. “That’s a neat lute or whatever. It looks too functional to be just a prop.” She gestured in the direction of the busy stage at the far end of the auditorium. “There’s filksinging going on right now. I’m getting this vibe that you’re pretty good at it. I’m kind of psychic, you see, and I have a feel for other people.” Her smile widened. “I bet you’re a—computer programmer!”

“Not exac—” he tried to explain as she grabbed his hand and pulled him forward. Mudge watched with amusement as his friend found himself dragged helplessly in the direction of the stage. Then he turned and headed for the food-laden tables.

Welcoming Jon-Tom, the flute player currently holding court on stage cast his own admiring glance at the duar. “Cool strings. You need a cord and an amp?”

Aware that others in the crowd had turned to face him, Jon-Tom played—but only for time. “Uh, no. Strictly acoustic.”

The flute player stepped aside. “Right. Let’s see what you can do.” Conscious that the butterfly was still watching him intently, Jon-Tom decided that a quick, straightforward song would be the easiest, and safest, way to escape the unwelcome attention now being directed toward him. As his fingers started to slide across the strings of the duar, a familiar multihued mist began to congeal at the interdimensional nexus.

Someone in the forefront of the crowd pointed excitedly. “Hey, look—light show!” Responding with a lame grin, Jon-Tom tried to strum as simple and unaffecting a melody as possible. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to remember the chords to the Barry Manilow tune. At least, he told himself, he would not have to worry about making any inadvertent magic.

Following his nose, Stromagg found himself confronting a pay bar near the far side of the auditorium. As he approached, someone thrust a tankard in his direction.

“Here you go, big guy. Have one on me.” The man dressed as Henry VIII pressed a full container into the grizzly’s paw. Accepting the offer, Stromagg took a suspicious sniff of the contents. His face lit up and he proceeded to drain the container in one long swallow. Looking on admiringly, the fan who would be king beckoned his friends to meet the new arrival.

Scarfing finger food as fast as he could evaluate it with eyes and nostrils, Mudge was distracted from his gorging by the tapping of a furry forefinger on his shoulder. A ready retort on his lips, he turned—only to find himself struck dumb by the sight that confronted him.

The girl’s otter costume was not only superbly rendered; it was, in a word, compelling.

Twirling a whisker, he slowly put aside the piled-high plate of goodies he had commandeered from the table. “Well now. And wot might your name be, darlin’?”

Peering through the eye cutouts in the papier-mâché head, the girl’s gaze reflected a mix of admiration and disbelief. “And I thought I had the best giant otter costume in England!” Her eyes inspected every inch of him, scrutinizing thoroughly. “I’ve never seen such good seamstress work. I can’t even see the stitches or where you’ve hidden the zipper.” Her eyes met his. “Costumers are good about sharing their secrets. Could you spare a couple of minutes to maybe give me some pointers?”

Mudge considered his platter. Food, girl. Food, girl.

Cookies…

IV

On stage Jon-Tom found himself, despite his reservations, slipping into the freewheeling spirit of the occasion. Participants were dancing in front of him, twirling in costume, reveling in his music-making. So self-absorbed were they that they failed to see the small black ball of vapor that emerged from the center of the duar to flash offstage and vanish in the direction of the farthest doorway. Judging from its angle of departure, Jon-Tom guessed it to be heading fast in the direction of the Underground stairway from which he and his companions had emerged earlier that same evening. Raising his voice excitedly while continuing to strum, Jon-Tom sought to alert his companions.