I had dropped the clarinet and was on my feet. I tried to back up but the balustrade stopped me. The four spread out. The man in the lead fingered a wicked-looking short club and spoke to me—in gibberish. I blinked at him and tried to think of a snappy comeback.
He snapped his fingers and two of the others came up; they reached for my arms. I started to square off, fist cocked, then relaxed; after all, I was just a tourist, Drgon by name. Unfortunately, before I could get my fist back, the man with the club swung it and caught me across the forearm. I yelled, jumped back, found myself grappled by the others. My arm felt dead to the shoulder. I tried a kick and regretted that too; there was armor under the cloaks. The club wielder said something and pointed at the cat....
It was time I wised up. I relaxed, tried to coax my alter ego into the foreground. I listened to the rhythm of the language: it was Vallonian, badly warped by time, but I could understand it:
"——musician would be an Owner!" one of them said.
Laughter.
"Whose man are you, piper? What are your colors?"
I curled my tongue, tried to shape it around the sort of syllables I heard them uttering; it seemed to me a gross debasement of the Vallonian I knew. Still I managed an answer:
"I ... am a ... citizen ... of Vallon."
"A dog of a masterless renegade?" The man with the club hefted it, glowered at me. "And what wretched dialect is that you speak?"
"I have ... been long a-voyaging," I stuttered. "I ask ... for briefing rods ... and for a ... dwelling place."