Son of Spellsinger: A Spellsinger Adventure (Book Seven)

by Alan Dean Foster

  Squill eyed him curiously. “Now ’ow do you know that? I’ve a brilliant sense o’ direction, but upside down and all enclosed like this I’m buggered if I can tell a thing.”

  Gragelouth did not miss a beat. “Traders who travel as much as I do learn how to judge such matters. Many of my customers live in difficult-to-locate places. It would be bad for business if I were unable to find my way to them.” A sudden thought cast a pall of concern over his always melancholy face. “I certainly hope we do not reach a point where this tunnel collapses. Drowning may be a less novel means of perishing than going to pieces, but it is just as decisive.”

  “We wouldn’t let you drown, baggy-eyes.” Neena smiled at him. “I’d get lonely for your constant complainin’.”

  “No signs of any change,” Buncan assured the sloth, though he had to admit that the thought worried him. Neither he nor the merchant could hold their breath half as long as the otters.

  “Your color has improved,” Gragelouth informed him.

  “I feel better. I guess I’m getting used to this. As much as it’s possible to get used to something like this.”

  He spoke too soon.

  Chapter 11

  TEN MINUTES DOWNSTREAM the tunnel began to warp and curl in upon itself. It felt as if they were sailing at high speed down the intestines of a gigantic snake in the grip of some wild, dyspeptic dance. Which, for all they actually knew, might in fact be the case.

  The tubular river bounced and dove, rose and plunged vertically: rapids inside a corkscrew. All the while the boat clung tenaciously to the surface of the water, while its occupants clung to cabin, tiller, gunwale, mast, or one another. The only thing that helped at all, Buncan discovered, was to close one’s eyes tight and concentrate on breathing evenly. Gragelouth had long since give up any attempt at steering, because he wished to devote his full attention to not throwing up. Abandoned, the tiller banged plaintively against the stern.

  While human and sloth fought desperately to hang on to various portions of the boat as well as the contents of their stomachs, the inimitable otters amused themselves by leaping overboard and cavorting in the crashing waters that rushed and sang on all sides. They positively reveled in the fervid disruption of natural law, ignoring Buncan’s warnings to beware of unexpected whirlpools, or intersecting tributaries that might tunnel away to nowhere.

  After all, where else could you swim up the side of a river until you were looking down on a boat and your companions, then kick free and dive through the air past them to splash into the water directly alongside?

  When the otters came back aboard, Buncan weakly suggested they try spellsinging themselves free of the Sprilashoone’s grip. Though the otters improvised and rapped enthusiastically, it did not affect their situation in the slightest. The fact that Buncan regularly interrupted each attempt with a desperate rush for the boat’s railing certainly did nothing to enhance the consistency of their spellsinging.

  “Why don’t you get out o’ those clothes an’ join us for a swim, Bunc?” Squill suggested. “Might do you good.”

  “I can’t swim like you.” There seemed to be six otters in his field of vision. “You know that.”

  “We’d keep an eye on you, Bunklo,” Neena assured him. “Wouldn’t let you drown. Anyways, it’s got to be better for you than ’angin’ on up ’ere, watchin’ this bloomin’ water go around an’ around as this boat goes up and down, up and down, twistin’ an’ turnin’ and bobbin’ an’ …”

  Buncan made a peculiar noise and shuffled hurriedly toward the bow.

  “Now see wot you’ve gone an’ done,” her brother told her.

  “Me?” Neena spread both arms wide, whiskers bristling. “I didn’t do nothin’, I didn’t. ’E were already tryin’ for the Bellwoods’ all-time upchuck record for ’umans.”

  “Oi, an’ ’e didn’t need your ’elp goin’ for it. All that chatter about the boat goin’ up an’ down an’ back an’ forth an’ down through this bleedin’ corkscrew…”

  Unable to ignore this cogent analysis of their present condition, Gragelouth stumbled forward to join his young human companion in misery.

  The Sprilashoone had more surprises in store. A corkscrew of water thrust them out into blue sky and open air, only to plunge them down afresh into the watery tunnel which had become their home. When it happened a second time they were prepared for the phenomenon, and by the end of an awful night the river was presenting them to the outside world with increasing frequency.

  By the dawn of their third day upon the psychotic watercourse, the tunnel had collapsed completely. No more corkscrews pierced its depths, no integral curls tormented its surface. They found themselves drifting downstream at a modest rate atop a broad stream that seemed determined to act, perhaps by way of compensation for the ordeal they had endured within its upper reaches, in as placid a fashion as possible.

  Trees and electric-blue bushes lined both banks, while reeds sprang like unruly green hair from the shallows. As they continued, signs of habitation and farming became visible.

  Buncan received this information from his companions with admirable equanimity. He was still too weak to rise from his pallet and look for himself. As for Gragelouth, the merchant seemed to have made a more rapid recovery, which did nothing to improve Buncan’s waterlogged self-esteem.

  While their friends regained their strength, the otters steered the boat away from the banks and carried out necessary minor repairs and cleanup. When not thus occupied, Squill could be found perched atop the mast, studying the shore while keeping alert for any rocks or snags that might be positioning themselves for ambush.

  Though he found the whole notion of food abhorrent, Buncan made an effort to eat. When the first few tentative bites stayed down, he found that both his outlook and condition improved. Subsequent offerings by Neena were consumed gratefully, if not enthusiastically. Sooner than he believed possible, he was once more participating fully in the operation of the boat.

  “I don’t understand.” She stood close to him one afternoon as he took his turn at the tiller. “’Ow can you get so sick just from watchin’ the water go past an’ around an’—”

  Buncan put a finger to her muzzle. “Not only can that make a human sick, sometimes words alone are enough to set it off.”

  “Oi, I gets it. Sorry.”

  “That’s all right.” He smiled. “Just don’t do it anymore, okay?”

  She nodded apologetically.

  “This is fine country,” the sloth observed. “I think soon we will come upon a place to refresh ourselves.” He glanced skyward. “In any event, the river seems to have changed course. We have been traveling due east for nearly an entire day now, and if we do not soon find ourselves once more sailing more to the north, we will have to abandon this craft and strike out overland again.”

  Clothahump would be unable to penetrate their tightly woven mask of protection.

  He forced himself to concentrate on the bustling, odoriferous quays. Being seasick had been debilitating enough. Now was not the time to surrender to homesickness. He straightened. Let his classmates laugh at him when he returned from this adventure.

  Assuming he did return, he reminded himself.

  Gragelouth was gesturing energetically in the direction of a small, unoccupied wharf. “Put in there.”

  No sailor, Buncan steered as best he could, and they bumped up against the wooden pilings rather hard. No one in the surging, preoccupied crowd paid them the slightest attention, their indifference serving as further confirmation of Camrioca’s cosmopolitanism.

  Squill queried Gragelouth as the sloth set about securing their craft to its new mooring. “Say, guv, shouldn’t we leave someone ’ere to guard the boat?”

  The merchant considered the rabble as he tightened a final knot. “I think it will be all right. There is sufficient foot traffic here to discourage the casual thief.” He indicated their worn, battered craft. “Besides, with so many better boats moored here, who would
be eager to steal this?”

  Squill nodded understandingly and turned to contemplate the town. After their many days of isolation on the river, it felt odd to be around so much activity.

  “Doesn’t look like another Hygria,” Buncan opined.

  “Nope,” Squill agreed. “Looks like a regular town, she does.”

  “If we have to head northwestward from here, what are we going to do about overland transportation?” Buncan wondered.

  “We have the boat to trade,” Gragelouth pointed out, “and I still have my purse.” He tapped the bag full of coins which rested against his ribs beneath his shirt. “We will find something.”

  “Not another bloody wagon.” Neena let out a groan.

  “Unfortunately, I do not have the resources to hire a corps of eagles to tow us through the sky,” the merchant replied rather stiffly. “Did you think this would get easier?”

  “No, I suppose not.” She sighed resignedly as they headed into town.

  Their initial impression of Camrioca as a sophisticated, wealthy community was reinforced by the appearance and attitude of the individual from whom they sought directions. The marmot was fat, graying, and dressed in a wealth of richly embroidered silks trimmed in soft leather. Buncan admired the outfit, while Neena was positively envious.

  Clearly delighted to be back among his own kind, an obeisant Gragelouth put their questions to his fellow merchant. Disinclined to speak with the ragged strangers but desirous of avoiding an argument with two armed otters and a tall human, the marmot politely supplied them with directions to the central marketplace.

  Full of hawkers and stalls, street vendors and confusion, rife with argument and pungent with exotic smells, the marketplace lay down the main bay street and immediately inland from the waterfront. Many of the shops were a reflection of their proprietors’ prosperity, having been constructed of stone or wood. Here goods from downriver and inland collided in a frenzy of commercial activity.

  As if the smell wasn’t enough, a query directed them to the livestock pens, where traders haggled over the price of riding snakes and dray lizards, fattened food crawlers and select breeding stock. Bemoaning the loss of his old reliable wagon and team, Gragelouth set about attempting to secure adequate transportation for the journey ahead. A good judge of reptilian flesh, he was unlikely to be cheated, but proper bargaining, he warned his companions, would take some time.

  That was all right, Buncan assured him. The marketplace of Camrioca was by far the largest of its type he’d ever visited, and there was much to see. He and Squill and Neena would have no problems entertaining themselves while the sloth set to his…

  Speaking of Neena, where had she gone and got herself to?

  Lizards and snakes hissed and jostled within their pens as their owners alternately coaxed and cajoled them. A trio of armed city police consisting of two coyotes and a helmeted badger struggled to maintain some semblance of rough order. They ignored the noisy, screeching fight taking place between an insulted margay and a panda certain he had been cheated. The margay had teeth and claws on his side, but the panda had strength. The cops had business elsewhere.

  As for Gragelouth, the merchant ignored it all. He was already bargaining intently with a strangely clad, wizened-face little macaque for the use of four bipedal riding lizards. They would not have the endurance or hauling capacity of his old team, but would travel much more swiftly. Squill stood impatiently nearby, looking bored.

  Buncan scanned the crowd. Where was Neena?

  “Squill, you see your sister?”

  “Sure, mate. She’s right over…” He blinked, men shrugged disinterestedly. “So she’s wandered off, gone bloody shopping. You know ’ow females are.”

  “Not really. How can she do any shopping? She hasn’t got any money with her.”

  Squill winked. “Old Mudge, ’e can’t ’elp teachin’ us things Weegee wishes ’e wouldn’t.”

  “If she’s off on some crazy stealing spree and she gets caught, we may not be able to get her out. This is a big, well-developed city. I’m sure they have big, well-developed jails. Also, if she gets herself in trouble after everything we’ve been through and survived, I’ll personally pluck her bald all over again myself.”

  “Good luck at that, mate.” Squill was grinning. “She’s been plucked before, by better than you.”

  “It’s not funny.” He stopped searching over the heads of the crowd and motioned to Gragelouth. Irritated at being interrupted, the merchant excused himself from his haggling.

  “What is it, boy? Be quick about it or I’ll lose what leverage I’ve gained.”

  “Neena seems to have disappeared.”

  “Otters are always coming and going. It is their manner to be unpredictable and impulsive. I would not worry. She will return soon.”

  “Probably, but Squill and I are gonna go have a look for her anyway.”

  “Please yourselves. Try not to be long. I hope not to be long here. Negotiations are proceeding satisfactorily. Oh, and try to stay out of trouble, human.”

  “I just want to make sure that’s what Neena’s doing.”

  The sloth seemed mollified as he returned to his bargaining.

  Buncan and Squill made their way through the livestock pens until they were back among the stalls and street vendors. Hours of searching failed to locate the absent otter.

  Squill was somewhat less than distressed. “Crikey, I’ve been tryin’ to lose the-mouth-that-swims for years.”

  “This is serious. Can’t you be serious for once?”

  “’Ell of a thing to ask of an otter, mate.”

  Buncan surveyed the surging crowd. “We have to keep looking.”

  They finally obtained something more than a curt shake of the head from a mongoose selling copper pots, pans, and other utensils.

  “Female you say, about your size?” Squill nodded tersely. “Elaborately streaked and made-up fur? Don’t-give-a-damn attitude?”

  “That’s me sister, all right.”

  The mongoose looked back down at the saucepan he was hammering out. “Haven’t seen her.”

  Buncan pushed his way past Squill. He towered above the otter, as he did over most of the denizens of the marketplace. The coppersmith eyed him warily.

  “Look, I do not want any trouble.”

  “That was a pretty precise description you just gave of someone you claim not to have seen.”

  “Well, you see, it is like this.” The mongoose’s gaze darted in several directions. “It would be worth my life if it were to become known in certain quarters that I voluntarily gave you such information.”

  Buncan considered. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but what you’re saying is that you have some information, but that we’re going to have to threaten you to get it?”

  “Did I say that? I did not say anything like that.”

  “Let me beat it out of ’im.” Flexing his fingers, Squill took an eager step forward. The merchant shrank from his approach.

  Buncan put a restraining hand on the otter’s arm. “I think that’s enough of a threat to suffice.”

  “Oh, yes.” The mongoose smiled relievedly. “I am thoroughly intimidated, and therefore no one can blame me for telling you what happened.”

  “Something happened to Neena?” Buncan’s anxiety level doubled.

  The vendor fingered the saucepan. “She was asked to spend some time as the guest of a powerful citizen.”

  Buncan and Squill exchanged a glance. “What citizen?” Buncan finally asked.

  “The Baron Koliac Krasvin.”

  “Never ’eard o’ ’im.” Squill let out a derisive snort. “But then, up until recently I never ’eard o’ this dung’eap either.”

  “Who is this Baron Krasvin?” Buncan inquired intently.

  “A local nobleperson of ignoble repute but substantial fortune,” the mongoose informed them. “Please do not torture me anymore.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” said Buncan impatiently. “Get on with it
.”

  “Surrounded by numerous retainers and household guards, he resides in a fortified mansion west of the city and well outside its boundaries. Also its jurisdiction. I cannot stand much more of this pain,” he added, rather sedately for one ostensibly in the throes of final torment.

  “Why would Neena go with this bloke?” Squill wanted to know.

  The trader coughed delicately. “The Baron is not especially well-liked in Camrioca. An expert with both saber and rapier, he has killed several in duels, and mere are those who find his presence in the Crescent of Nobles displeasing. But he is the scion of a noble family, and he has money. A difficult combination to abjure.”

  “Sounds like a real prince,” Buncan muttered. “What’s this got to do with my friend’s sister?”

  The mongoose glanced sharply at Squill. “Ah, she is your sister. That is most unfortunate.”

  For the first time Squill exhibited a semblance of real concern. “Wot are you on about, guv?”

  “Besides being a deadly fighter, and powerful and rich, the Baron Krasvin happens to be a mink.”

  “A mink?” Squill blinked. “Wot’s that got to do with … Oh. A mink, it is?”

  Buncan frowned at his friend. “I guess I’m missing something.”

  “Did you cut all your tribal-classification classes, mate?” Squill peered up at him. “We otters ’ave pretty intense appetites in certain areas.”

  “Like for fish?”

  “I ain’t talkin’ about food ’ere, Buncan. Otters ’ave extreme longin’s for swimmin’ and for fun. ’Umans like to argue. Wolves are partial to singin’. Cattle like to stand around an’ gossip an’ ’orses like to pull things. None o’ them can ’elp it. It’s all part o’ the natural order o’ things. Minks like to … Let me put it like this. Your average mink would make Mudge look celibate.”

  “Oh. Oh, shit.”

  Squill was nodding vigorously. “I mean, I never thought o’ me own sister as attractive. Kind o’ a frump, if you ’appened to ask me. But bein’ ’er brother an’ all, I suppose from the viewpoint o’ another she might possess characteristics that—”