Son Of Spellsinger

by Alan Dean Foster

  “I think I know you as well as I want to already.” She made it around the foot of the bed, and he followed relentlessly, making no move to rush her, clearly enjoying the athletic foreplay. Eventually she would tire, and there was nowhere else for her to go. They all came to that realization eventually.

  “Come now,” he chided her. “I’m not such a bad fellow. I assure you from experience that our minor tribal differences will not hinder mutual revelation. Haven’t you ever wondered if what they say about minks is true?”

  “Not even from an academic standpoint,” she shot back.

  “You’re lying, but that’s okay. You’re going to get answers to questions you never thought to ask. How old are you, by the way?” His persistent stare was base and clinical. “Not very, I’d wager. Just beginning to bloom. Delightful.” Despite his veneer of sophistication, he was all but drooling on the floor.

  He was closer now, one paw extended.

  “Keep away from me!” She whirled and raced to the other side of the bed.

  As Krasvin advanced purposefully, she removed the oil lamp from its metal holder and set the flaming crystal container aside, wielding the metal pole which had formerly supported it like a lance. Krasvin was not intimidated.

  “That dress flatters every line of your body, you know.”

  “No closer!” She gestured wamingly with the tip of the lamp pole.

  He halted. “Oh, my. You have armed yourself. I fear I must rethink my intentions.” He turned his back on her.

  She didn’t relax even slightly. “Get out. Through the door, go on. I’ll just wait in ‘ere for me friends.”

  He peered back over his shoulder, the earring bobbing above his fur. “Anything else you’d like me to do for you? Any other demands? No?” He turned and dropped his eyes momentarily. An instant later he was upon her.

  Normally there wasn’t a creature alive an agile mink couldn’t run down. But despite being slightly stouter of build, otters were nearly as quick. She threw the lamp pole as soon as he made his move. He twisted lithely, knocking it to the floor with both hands. It landed between them, clanging against the stone floor.

  As soon as the pole left her fingers, she grabbed up the lamp and heaved it. Again the Baron dodged. The lamp just missed his head, landing a good distance behind him and shattering against the slate. Flaming oil spread along the grout between the stones.

  Krasvin glanced at the fire, which would burn itself out harmlessly, before turning back to her. “Don’t you find it warm enough in here already? You should save your strength. You’re going to need it.” He resumed his measured advance. “Has it not occurred to you by now that I have followed this exact scenario through to its inevitable conclusion many times before this, and that I am familiar with anything you might do or try? Much as I enjoy these little games, I don’t see any sense in prolonging them. You will not leave this chamber until I say so. Meanwhile, why not give in to reality and make it as easy as possible on yourself?”

  Neena seemed to slump. “I guess . . .! guess you’re right.” She dropped her head, adopting what she imagined to be a conciliatory, complaisant posture.

  “That’s better,” he said curtly. He nodded to his right. “On the bed with you. Or would you like me to throw you there?” He came nearer, stepping over the fallen lamp pole as he reached for her.

  As he did so, she advanced submissively toward him. One slippered foot came down on the base of the fallen pole. Hard.

  The other end of the pole snapped upward directly between his short legs. His eyes widened sufficiently for her to see the dying oil fire reflected fully in them, while his grin was replaced by another expression entirely as he crumpled to the floor.

  She rushed to him and ripped the decorative dagger from his waistband. For some reason he made no move to stop her, perhaps because his hands were presently elsewhere occupied. Nor did he venture any clever ban mots.

  Skirt swirling around her, she raced for the door and began pounding madly on the heavy wooden barrier. “The Baron,” she screamed, “the Baron’s ‘avin’ a heart attack! Someone help, please help us!”

  As the door swung wide to reveal a pair of muscular, heavily armed weasels, she stepped aside, holding her hands behind her. While one kept a wary eye on her, the other rushed into the room as soon as he spotted the Baron writhing on the floor. Krasvin was holding himself with one hand and gesturing weakly with the other, his ability to sculpt coherent words still somewhat inhibited. “No . . . don’t . . .,” he was gasping. His feeble protestations drew the attention of the second guard, at which point Neena brought her arm around fast and hard to thrust the dagger into his side, just beneath his armor. The weasel squealed but managed only a desultory gesture of interference as she sprinted past him.

  Only to find an orang-utan clad in black chain mail and spiked helmet blocking the hallway. His long arms extended from one wall to the other, preventing her from dashing past.

  “Now where did you think you were going, m’lady?” he growled at her.

  “Nowhere,” she gasped. “ Tis just that the Baron “as been taken suddenly ill an’ . . .” She looked back toward the chamber. Through the gaping door she could see the first guard helping Krasvin to his feet. The other had staggered into the room, clutching his side.

  Frowning, the orang looked past her. “Looks like he’s being helped.”

  “ ‘E needs it,” she replied, “an’ so will you.” A lightning strike with the dagger thrust up under the chest armor and into the orang’s belly. One long arm groped for her and missed as she withdrew the bloody blade and hurried onward.

  Dress flying, she sped down the now empty hallway, searching wildly for any exit. The building she was in seemed endless. As she turned a corner she nearly ran into a pair of spear-carrying rats and a single langur.

  There was an open door on her left, and she took it, finding herself in some kind of pantry or kitchen annex. Bundles of dried meat, packages sealed with wax, sacks of flour barred her path as she struggled through. Behind her, voices were rising in counterpoint to the echo of booted and sandaled feet. The household was being alerted to her flight.

  She forced open the door on the far side of the vestibule and found herself in a large, open room lit by oil lamps and the single obligatory overhead glowbulb. Fully three walls of the two-story-high chamber were lined with shelves on which reposed more books than she’d ever seen in her life, more books than she imagined even Clothahump must possess. Bindings of wood and metal, of leather and exotic materials, gleamed in the indirect light.

  A large double-sided reading table and two matching chairs occupied the center of the room, while a narrow railed walkway ran completely around the library at mezzanine level. A single ladder leaned against an opening in the railing, providing access to the upper shelves. The fourth wall was mostly glass, dark now since it was night outside.

  To her right a brace of double doors stood open, revealing a spacious atrium beyond. It also exposed the interior of the library to the outside, which was full of bustling, armed retainers.

  One spotted her and pointed. “There she is!”

  She looked around frantically. The heavy, beveled windows would open but slowly, if at all. A desperate rush might carry her through . . . at the risk of being cut to bloody shreds.

  As the noise outside increased, she grabbed one of the cut-crystal oil lamps, making sure it was at least half full, I and scampered up the ladder to the second-level walkway. A pair of armed pacas entered, espied her, and came a-rushing. Setting the lamp down on the landing, she put both hands on the top of the ladder and shoved. It made a satisfying crash as it struck both of them, knocking one to the floor.

  A couple of pottos showed up but made no move to resurrect the ladder. They were followed by a hyrax and a trio of stout armadillos. The Baron arrived a moment later, escorted by a single weasel.

  “Cheers.” She smiled bravely as she clutched the dagger tight. “ ‘Ow’s your ardor? Cooled
a bit?”

  He grinned back up at her, but it was clearly a strain. “Under different circumstances I might have found the encounter stimulating.”

  “Cor, you don’t say?” She waved the blade. “Come on up ‘ere an’ I’ll be glad to stimulate you some more.”

  “You’re being very tiresome. Come down from there. Now.”

  “Sorry. I kind o’ like it up ‘ere. Meanwhile, you can kiss your arse.”

  He took a deep breath. “I see that ropes and restraints are in order. I had hoped you would come to enjoy my attentions, or at least tolerate them. Now I see that I will have to take a different approach. It will in nowise mitigate my pleasure, but I assure you that you will find it exceedingly uncomfortable.” He gestured. There were now a dozen armed retainers in the room.

  Two of the armadillos picked up the ladder, while a dexterous gibbon placed his saber between his teeth and prepared to ascend as soon as it had been properly positioned. Seeing that the armadillos intended to set the ladder against the railing on the other side of the room, Neena rushed around the walkway and prepared to confront them.

  As the ladder struck home, the climbing gibbon drew his saber and cut at her legs. She hopped lithely over the blow, avoiding a second slash just to show it was no fluke, and sliced the combative primate across his lightly clad chest. Clutching at the wound, the ape lost his balance and fell, rather dramatically, to the floor below. His colleagues thoughtfully scattered, none gallant enough to break their companion’s fall.

  “Get her down from there, you idiots!” Krasvin raged at his servants. “Get another ladder! Get several.” As a number of the retainers rushed to do his bidding, he whirled to glare up at her.

  While everyone waited on those who had left, the armadillos raised the single ladder a second time. This time it was a somewhat reluctant rat who cautiously ascended the rungs. As he climbed, he jabbed his long spear in Neena’s direction. Retreating, she parried the unwieldy thrusts until the rat was within reach. Then she darted forward beneath the spearpoint and slashed at his hand. The rodent yelped, dropped his spear, and shinnied quickly back down the ladder.

  She’d grabbed at the spear but missed, hoping to gain something to hurl at the gaping faces below. It was then she realized that in that regard she was not unequipped.

  The first tome she pulled from the shelves was weighty and thickly bound. This satisfying missile struck one of the armadillos square on the forehead. It squealed in pain and let go of the ladder as its companion tried to balance the heavy object.

  Additional volumes followed in joyful and rapid succession. They caused plenty of confusion, if no real damage.

  A stricken Krasvin stepped hastily to the fore. “Stop that!” He bent to recover a damaged tome, cradling it lovingly. “Don’t you realize how valuable this collection is? Do you have any idea what goes into the manufacture of a single book?” He was genuinely distressed.

  Neena smiled inwardly. She’d found Krasvin’s weak spot.

  It seemed he was a collector not only of unwilling young females, but of books. She would not have guessed it.

  “No, I don’t.” She selected an especially beautifully bound volume from the nearest shelf. “You mean it would be really hard to replace this if you did this to it?” Opening the book, she began to rip out pages at random, tossing them over the railing. They fluttered to the floor like stricken moths.

  “Don’t do that!” His fist clenched in a paroxysm of frustration, Krasvin glared at his people. “Where are those other ladders?”

  Neena promptly began ripping and flinging fistfuls of pages from volumes chosen at random, until a blizzard of paper and vellum filled the room. Helpless to stop her, Krasvin was suffering more than he had from the lamp pole. Witnessing his agony made Neena feel better than she had in some time.

  Wheezing and panting, several retainers finally returned with two more ladders. Gathering along different walls, they prepared to assault her from three directions at once. Quick as she was, she knew she could probably hold them off for a little while. But eventually they would wear her down. Once more in his paws, she knew Krasvin would take steps to see that her escape attempt could not be repeated.

  “It’s all over.” Mink eyes stared ferociously up at her. “Come down right now and maybe, maybe, if you beg me hard enough and long enough, I won’t have you killed when I’m finished with you.”

  “I reckon you’re right, mister Baron. It is over. Except for this.” Taking the last volume she’d extracted from the shelves, she held it upside down so that the pages dangled loose directly above the open flame of the crystal oil lamp. As soon as it caught, she heaved the flaming folio over the railing. It landed amidst a pile of torn pages, which immediately flared brightly.

  “Put that out!” Ripping the cloak from one of his retainers, Krasvin flung it onto the fire and began hopping madly to snuff the flames. Only the quick thinking of the langur, who raced for the kitchen and returned moments later with a pail of water, enabled them to extinguish the blaze before the entire room was engulfed.

  When Krasvin was finally able to turn his attention back to his former captive, she already had another pile of irreplaceable kindling ready. Half a dozen other books lay open nearby, soaked with oil from the lamp.

  “Righty-ho. Now, do I get out o’ ‘ere, or does this ‘ole blinkin’ repository go up in smoke?”

  “You’ll burn with it.”

  “I’ll take me chances. ‘Ow about you?” She was not smiling now.

  “You don’t get out of here,” he spat out. “You never get out of here. Even if you burn down the whole library.”

  She shrugged. “Suit yourself, guv.” She lowered the book she was holding toward the open flame, sure they could smell the oil she’d spread about even on the floor below.

  “Wait!” The mink raised both paws. She hesitated. “Let’s . . . talk.”

  She nodded slowly, pursing her lower lip. “That’s more like it. I’m always willin’ to chat. But I’m pretty tired. Tired o’ tryin’ to watch everybody.”

  The Baron gestured. The three ladders were lowered and the retainers backed off, several of them retreating to the atrium outside. Selecting one of the reading chairs, Krasvin sat down facing her. “Better?”

  “Bloody right it is. Now I’d like some water.”

  “How about some fine wine instead?”

  She smiled thinly. “I may be young, but I ain’t stupid. Just water. Cold. An’ somethin’ to eat. Fresh fish would be nice.”

  “Anything else?” he asked tensely.

  She didn’t flinch from his even, murderous gaze. “If there is, I’ll let you know.”

  He nodded once and relayed the instructions to a servant. The paca vanished through the double doorway. Setting themselves to wait, the remaining retainers put their weapons aside and leaned against the shelves, or sat down on the tiled floor.

  Krasvin crossed his arms and continued to watch her.

  “You must know that there is no way I’m going to let you leave here without having you first. Especially after what you’ve done.”

  “I think you’re the one who’s been ‘ad, Baron.” She sat down on the walkway, her back against the shelves.

  “What do you think you’re going to do after you’ve eaten and drunk?” he asked her.

  “First things first.” There, she thought. That’s better than confessing that I haven’t the slightest idea what I am going to do next.

  “You don’t mind if I eat with you?” Something of Krasvin’s smile had returned. “All this activity has made me quite hungry.” He whispered to another servant.

  “ ‘As it, now? I’d ‘oped I’d managed to kill your appetite completely.”

  “No. Only momentarily stun it.” “Too bad I couldn’t ‘ave used this.” She made a gesture with the appropriated dagger. “Instead of just a lamp pole. If my father were ‘ere “e’d slice you up into family souvenirs. An’ ‘is friend is the greatest spellsinger in all
the Warmlands.”

  Krasvin did not appear impressed. Servants arrived bearing food and drink. She made certain the paca who handed up hers from the top of one ladder was unarmed. When he’d completed the delivery, she kicked the ladder off the walkway. The ever-ready armadillos caught it as it fell.

  Krasvin picked daintily at his own victuals. “Unfortunately, none of the individuals of whom you speak are here.”

  “Me travelin’ companions are.”

  “No, you are wrong. They are in Camrioca. If they haven’t already abandoned you. While you . . . are here. With me.”

  She chewed on the fish and sipped at the water only after carefully smelling of both. If they were drugged, it was with substances beyond her ability to distinguish. She had to chance it.

  Besides, from the Baron’s point of view there was no need for such subtleties. He could sleep whenever he felt like it, rotating guards as long as was necessary, knowing that exhaustion would eventually overcome her. As they ate she saw other servants coming and going, stocking the library with pails of water to douse any fire as Krasvin sought to prepare for the final -assault.

  As soon as she’d had enough to drink she poured the rest of the water over her head, soaking the elegant gown and running her makeup. It freshened her, but only, she knew, for a while.

  Where in the name of the Ultimate Whirlpool were her friends and that lazy useless ragball of a brother? Not that they were likely to successfully crash this pocket fortress, but surely they were bound to try? She settled herself as best she could, shifting her position on the unyielding wooden walkway.

  She was determined to put off the inevitable for as long as possible. If naught else, by the time she finally gave out she might be too exhausted to feel anything.

  Krasvin sat watching her, his gaze rarely wavering. His principal adviser, an elderly mandrill, approached and dared to whisper in his ear.

  “Why don’t we rush her, your lordship? See, she tires already? How many books could she burn before we took her?”