Son Of Spellsinger

by Alan Dean Foster

  “Fool.” The cowled mandrill shrank back. “One more would be too many. Don’t you know how precious this library is? How valuable a single volume is in the scheme of existence? How irreplaceable the knowledge it holds, the information it contains within its multitudinous pages? Books are by far the most valuable resource of the Learned. They are the foundation of civilization, the bedrock of society, the source of all that is profound and wise and benign. The loss of a single folio denigrates me, denigrates, you, diminishes all thinking individuals. That is a catastrophe to be avoided at all costs.”

  “Actually, your lordship, I thought that fornication was more important to you than books.”

  “I am surprised at you, Byelroeth. You know that this library is my most valued possession. That it is the supreme example of its kind not only in Camrioca, but in all the lands to the south and east. It is the envy of all who visit here. Having seen it, they cannot do else but admire my dedication to erudition and learning, to great literature and to research.”

  “Your pardon, your lordship, but may I remind you that this library consists entirely of pornography?”

  The mink’s gaze narrowed as he regarded his Adviser. “Are you making fun of me, Byelroeth?”

  The mandrill’s eyes widened. “Me? Never, your lordship.”

  Krasvin turned away, easing back in his chair and focusing once more on the seated figure of the lady otter on the walkway above.

  “Incompetents. I am surrounded by incompetents. No wonder a single female of a tribe not noted for their depth of dunking has been able to outsmart and outfight all of you.”

  “Aye. All of us, Master,” came a voice from somewhere behind him.

  He whirled furiously. “Who said that?” A few startled faces looked back at him. Several shuffled uneasily where they stood. But no one owned up to the comment.

  He forced himself to set the matter aside. Now was not the time to go lopping off heads arbitrarily. That could come later. Right now he needed every paw and claw.

  “Whoever spoke was right in one sense. She is making fools of us all.”

  “We are just not all as frustrated as you, Master,” said another voice. Krasvin joined in the nervous laughter which followed this sally. Keep them relaxed and they will put more enthusiasm into their work, he told himself. Much later, when this episode was concluded, he would administer truth serum to each and every one of them. When the severed heads of the guilty were mounted atop the front gate, he would see to it that they were positioned with smiles on their faces in memory of the untimely quips which had ultimately convicted them.

  Fulfillment of his desires had merely been delayed, not thwarted.

  The female who was making a fool of him tapped the book she had opened on her lap. It was bound in green snakeskin fore-edged with gold.

  “Oi, Baron!” He said nothing. “This ‘ere could be an educational experience if you weren’t so bloody insistent on forcin’ yourself on me.” She turned a leaf, shook her head at what the next page revealed. “I do believe you’re a right nasty-minded little sod, Kraven.”

  “Krasvin. Will you come down from there?”

  “Only if you can figure a way o’ assurin’ me o’ safe passage out o’ ‘ere, an’ promisin’ that you won’t come huntin’ for me and me companions.” She looked past him, toward the double doorway. “They should be arrivin’ any time now.”

  He smiled disarmingly. “Your so-called friends seem shy. There has been no sign of any visitors at the gates or on the grounds, save for a single itinerant peddler whom my staff drenched with dirty dishwater and sent packing. Can it be that your erstwhile companions have conceded the reality of your capture and are relaxing in the city, drinking and taking their ease and generally enjoying themselves? That would be the sensible thing for them to do should they have learned what has happened to you. Are they sensible, these friends of yours?”

  She nudged the lamp a little nearer to the pile of opened, oil-soaked books just to see him tense up. “I really ought to get this goin’. ‘Tis a mite chilly in “ere.”

  Below, Krasvin raised a restraining paw. “Don’t. These volumes are all unique, all one of a kind.”

  She tapped the one she was perusing. “I’ll bet. I’d ‘ate to think there were more than one o’ these.”

  “Judge me if you will, but don’t judge my books. All-knowledge is valuable.”

  “Spoken like a scholar. ‘Course, that means nothin” to me. I’m just a fun-lovin’ sort. So are me friends, as you’ll find out when they arrive.” At which point, in spite of making a great effort to suppress the reaction, she yawned.

  Krasvin’s smile returned. “I will put my mind to a method of ensuring your unhindered departure.”

  “So you’ve decided to let me go?” She yawned again.

  “My library is more important to me than any mere conquest. I will think how to reassure you.”

  “Now you’re bein’ smart.” As she eyed him uncertainly the book started to slide from her relaxed fingers. Startled, she regripped the covers.

  He rose from the chair. “My advisers and I will devise a method to satisfy you. A pity. I admire your spirit as much as your tail. But if it is not to be,” he executed an elaborate, theatrical shrug of disappointment, “it is not to be.” Turning, he accompanied Byelroeth out to the atrium.

  “She tires, your lordship,” said the mandrill. “As much pressure as she has been under, surely she cannot remain awake much longer.”

  “It’s nothing compared to the pressure she’s going to be under when I get her out of there.” Krasvin turned to his Adviser. “I’m going to my chambers for a nap. Make certain the watch on her is rotated regularly and kept fresh. I don’t know where she learned to fight like that, but I’m taking no chances. Not with the imbeciles I’m forced to depend on.”

  “She will doubtless fall asleep before you awaken, your lordship.”

  “Yes. Then we’ll write some pages of our own in a different sort of book. One that’s appropriately bound.” He stalked off in the direction of his private rooms, his hands clasped behind his back, the fingers kneading one another in anticipation of work to come. The mandrill did not share his Master’s peculiar tastes, and he shuddered for the lady in the library.

  CHAPTER 13

  The tavern was situated close to both the central marketplace and the harbor. It was elegant without and spacious within, the sort of establishment where the city’s honorable citizens could mix comfortably with less reputable inhabitants and travelers. A good place in which to find both information and aid.

  “This mad venture had best not cost overmuch.” Gragelouth cautiously considered their intended destination from the outside. “Not that I wouldn’t do everything within my power to rescue your sister,” he added quickly to Squill, who hovered nearby, “but I cannot forbear from pointing out that our resources are already sorely strained.”

  Buncan was trying to see through one of the windows into the tavern. It was packed with patrons. There was a wooden piano in back at which a flea-bitten wolf plied his trade. The barmaids came from many tribes, but none looked any less tough or competent than the customers they served. He and Squill followed the merchant inside.

  Representatives of dozens of species caroused at booths and tables or harangued the several bartenders. The music was loud, the conversation louder still. Everyone looked . . . used.

  “Maybe we’d do better elsewhere,” he suggested, having to raise his voice to make himself heard.

  “I did some checking.” The sloth was ambling toward the entrance. “In a more refined establishment we will not find the land of help we seek. Indeed, we would run the risk of encountering friends of this Baron.” He smiled gently, and not for the first time Buncan found himself wondering what truly lay behind that smile. The smile behind the snout, as it were.

  “Anywhere more disreputable and any help we might engage would probably prove unreliable, likely to bolt at the first hint of difficulty o
r danger. Not that I am hopeful of finding anyone anywhere willing to risk their lives for so little recompense as we can offer.”

  Buncan nodded his understanding, affecting what he hoped was an air of cosmopolitan insouciance as they sauntered into the main room. They were quickly swept up in the heady, boisterous atmosphere.

  While Gragelouth made straight for the bar, Buncan strolled among the tables until his gaze fell on a full-grown, black-maned lion. Standing, the powerful feline would have towered over him. Broad, muscle-slabbed shoulders peered out from beneath iridescent snake-leather armor which was thickly fringed at the edges. It covered shoulders and upper chest only, leaving the flat belly revealed. Matching fringed shorts and high-laced sandals completed the attire. A double-handed sword longer than Squill was tall rested in its scabbard against the side of the round table at which its owner relaxed. Presently, the lion was holding a brass-bound wooden tankard the size of a man’s head.

  “Now that’s just who we need on our side.” He headed for the table.

  Squill trailed along uncertainly, plucking at his friend’s tunic. “ ‘Ere now, mate, maybe we ought to let the merchant ‘ave a go first, wot? ‘E’s the one with the negotiatin’ experience.”

  Buncan didn’t alter his vector. “I’m just going to talk to him. Don’t worry, I can handle it.”

  The nearer they drew, the bigger the lion looked. Squill muttered something under his breath.

  The feline was holding court with the oversize, sloshing tankard. His road-toughened companions, a fox and caracal, didn’t look like pushovers themselves. The caracal’s sharply raked ears turned in Duncan’s direction an instant before he spoke.

  “Excuse me.”

  The back of the lion’s mane had been combed and tied in a thick ponytail. It rustled as its owner glanced questioningly out of large yellow eyes at the presumptuous young human. “No,” he said without hesitation. His voice was deep and vibrant, as if it rose from the bottom of an old stone well.

  Buncan was taken aback. “Sorry?” A deep nimble issued from the back of the lion’s throat. “I mean that I won’t excuse you.” The tankard rose and beer vanished. A heavy tongue licked subsidiary suds from a tan muzzle. Across the table the fox and caracal shared a meaningful chuckle.

  Ignoring Squill’s insistent tugs, Buncan regarded the smug trio. “Suit yourself. I guess this means that you’re all independently wealthy.”

  The fox’s ears pricked up. “Say again?” The caracal, too, showed sudden interest.

  Buncan shifted from one foot to the other, affecting nonchalance. “I said that you must all be independently wealthy. It’s clear you don’t need any work.”

  “Who said we didn’t need work?” The fox ignored the lion’s disapproving glare.

  Buncan shrugged. “You’re not interested in my offer of employment.”

  The lion placed a paw on the table, extending all five claws. They dug into the thick wood, which was scarred from similar attention from time and customers immemorial. It was hard not to stare at them.

  “Explain yourself, cub.”

  Buncan bristled but contained himself. “My friend’s sister has been abducted.”

  “What friend?” asked the feline with a low growl.

  Buncan turned. Squill was nowhere to be seen. Searching farther afield located him seated at the bar. The otter held a mug in one hand and waved cheerily with the other. With a sigh, Buncan turned back to the table.

  “He’s over there.”

  “So his sister’s been abducted. It’s a tough world. What’s that to us?” the caracal muttered.

  “Money, and adventure. If you assist us in her rescue.”

  The smaller feline toyed with his own tankard, which was half the size of the lion’s. “Adventure’s usually a fool’s word for describing discomfort and hardship. If I long for some I can usually find it without having to fight off desperate kidnappers.”

  “How do you know it’ll be like that?” Buncan asked him.

  “Because it is a friend who is involved, your interest in this matter is obviously personal,” observed the fox. “Ours would not be.” He glanced speculatively across the table. “If the fee were right . . .”

  “Fust things first,” the lion murmured. “Who’s done the kidnapping? Transient thieves? Registered Guild Abductors? Some fool freelancers?” He uttered the last hopefully.

  “He’s local. A real asshole. Taking off his head would probably gain you the gratitude of everyone in the city.”

  “We’re not after anybody’s gratitude,” the lion grunted. “As for assholes, you’ll have to be more specific. Camrioca boasts a plentiful supply.” He gestured with the tankard. “To which local asshole do you happen to be referring?”

  “He calls himself a Baron. Koliac Krasvin.”

  “Krasvin.” The lion thrust out his lower lip thoughtfully. “I see. Am I correct in assuming that your friend’s sister is being held in the Baron’s fortified home?”

  “That’s what we believe,” Buncan told him.

  “And you want the three of us,” he indicated his silent companions, “to help you extricate this unlucky female from Krasvin’s possession?” Buncan indicated the affirmative.

  The lion nodded slowly. “Let me tell you something, my furless young friend.” He extended a massive paw and tapped Buncan in the sternum with one outthrust finger. Buncan held his ground, refusing to be intimidated.

  “First of all, you don’t look like you have access to more than a few silver pieces at most. Our services run considerably more than that. Second, Koliac Krasvin is known to keep no fewer than fifty armed retainers by his side at all times, all of whom will fight to the death at his command. Not out of love for their master, who is, as you rightly surmise, widely disliked, but because they know if they don’t he’ll have their throats slit while they sleep. Krasvin doesn’t tolerate disloyalty.

  “Thirdly, Krasvin’s ‘home’ is more like a small castle than a large house. The main building is enclosed within a high stone wall that would make any military engineer proud. The windows are barred, the doors and gates reinforced with iron and brass. There’s no moat, because one isn’t needed. You’ll suck no marrow from that bone with the three of us, not even if you somehow managed to cajole ten more into accompanying you. My professional estimate is that you’d need a small army to storm the front entrance, and I don’t think you have the money to hire a small army. “Lastly, despite his well-known wildings and distasteful proclivities, the Baron has friends in Camrioca, some in high places. If word got out that a force of any size was marching on his estate, he’d have time to prepare and rally not only his personal staff but those of his allies. So you’d end up with your small army facing his small army.” The thumb stopped prodding and its burly owner leaned back in his chair.

  “We’re not interested.”

  “But . . .,” Buncan started to argue.

  “I said no. I don’t like your proposition, and just incidentally,” he added in a low growl that revealed sharp canines, “I don’t much care for primates, either.”

  At that point an older, wiser traveler would have simply taken his leave. Buncan was too young and too frustrated to react sensibly.

  “You’re not very hospitable to strangers.”

  Muscles in the fox’s neck and arms tensed while the caracal emitted a low, throaty snarl. The lion stiffened slightly but made no move to rise.

  “Young human, you’re either very brave or very stupid. Since I am big enough to admire the one and forgive the other, I’ll simply tell you that I’ve treated you no differently than anyone else who’d come seeking our assistance. This matter has nothing to do with hospitality. It’s business, and I’ve treated it in a businesslike manner.”

  “Forget money for a moment,” Buncan implored him. The caracal laughed sharply, a sound like sandpaper on velvet. “What about my friend’s sister’s virtue?”

  “I don’t know where you’re from, cub, but this is Camrio
ca.” The lion gestured expansively. “Virtue is not a particularly valued commodity in these parts. I’m not willing to risk death for my own, much less another’s.”

  “She’s being forced.”

  “If it’s gallantry you seek,” said the fox sagely, “look to books and cub-tales. If it’s muscle and armor, look to your purse. And if it’s justice, hope for better in the afterlife.” He threw back the remainder of his drink.

  Buncan leaned forward. “Please. We’ve nowhere else to turn.”

  Looking him hard in the eye, the lion put a massive paw on Buncan’s shoulder and gently but irresistibly shoved him away. “Have you tried the door? You humans: Even the young ones will argue you to death. You made your offer; we gave our reply. Leave now, before you upset me.”

  Buncan wasn’t finished, then realized that he was. It would do the unfortunate Neena no good if he got himself slaughtered here in this tavern, much less facing the ramparts of the Baron’s home. Disconsolately, he moved to rejoin Squill and Gragelouth.

  The merchant made room for him at the bar. He eyed Duncan knowingly as his long tongue lapped liquor from a wide-mouthed, short-stemmed glass. “I could have told you.”

  “No luck, mate?” Squill asked him. Duncan replied gruffly. “What do you think?” He rubbed the place on his chest where the lion’s thick finger had prodded repeatedly.

  The sloth glanced back over a shoulder. “Those were professionals you accosted. A look is enough to brand them as such. Even had they acceded to your request, we would not have had enough money to pay them.”

  “We could have ‘deferred’ payment until after Neena’s rescue.”

  Gragelouth scratched at the fur between his eyes. “Now you sound like your otterish friends. An attitude like that will get you killed before you reach your second decade.” “Well, I didn’t know what else to do,” Buncan replied irritably. “Squill, I don’t suppose you’ve had any better luck?”

  The otter gestured to his right. “Actually, mate, I’ve been chattin’ up that squirrelish barmaid over there. The one with the tufts tippin’ ‘er ears? It’s times like these that I wish I’d paid more attention to some o’ me dad’s stories. The ones ‘e’s more apt to tell when me mum ain’t about.”