Son Of Spellsinger

by neetha Napew

  “Pleased to meet you. I’m Buncan Meriweather.”

  The merchant withdrew his hand and placed it over his heart. “I am Gragelouth, trader by profession and inclination. I find that I owe my everything to your timely arrival, young traveler. What I do not understand is why you youngsters,” Buncan winced but said nothing, “should intervene on my behalf. You are not, I hope, deranged altruists?”

  “Not at all. I’m pleased to tell you that we have a perfectly valid ulterior motive.”

  “Ah.” Gragelouth smiled, showing surprisingly bright teeth in his broad, flat face. “I am delighted to learn that you are merely foolhardy and not insane.” Reaching behind his seat, he rummaged through a large satchel. “You must allow me to reward you for your help. Though I am not wealthy, I am most certainly wealthier thanks to your efforts. I regret only that you did not slay more of those brigands.”

  Buncan smiled thinly. “Actually, we were trying hard not to hurt anybody. At least, I was.”

  “Spoken like a true student of the thaumaturgical arts.”

  “We’re still learning.”

  The merchant straightened and nodded. “That is what life is for. To stop learning is to begin to die.” He opened the purse he’d extracted from the satchel and made a show of searching the contents. “I will give you all that I can spare, impossible as it is to put a price on a life. I retain only enough to support me awhile in L’bor, until I can resume my sales.”

  “We don’t want your money.” Buncan could hear the tussling otters as they bumped up against the rear wheels.

  A grateful Gragelouth sealed his purse with a soft snap. “Something from my stock, perhaps? I maintain quite a diverse inventory. Some fine new weapons to balance your magical skills? Or raiment most excellent, to insinuate you with the female of your choice? Though I carry garments for humans, I am not sure I can fit one of your stature.”

  “We don’t want anything like that.”

  “What, then, can I do for you?” The sloth spread his hands wide. “An unpaid debt weighs heavy on the soul.” His engaging, deceptively lazy smile returned. “No doubt something that involves your aforementioned ulterior motive.”

  “In point of fact, sir, it involves us doing something more for you.”

  The sloth sniffed delicately. “Explain yourself, Buncan Meriweather. Your words warm my heart but confuse my brain.”

  Buncan considered how best to proceed. “It’s like mis, trader Gragelouth. We’re bored.”

  The sloth grinned. “Ah. The endemic affliction of the incipient adult. I fear it requires a more skilled physician than myself to treat that condition.”

  “Several nights ago you discussed your travels with my father.”

  Gragelouth’s heavy brows rose. “Your sire is a turtle?”

  It was Duncan’s turn to smile. “Hardly. But he is a master spellsinger.”

  “How do you know of this?”

  “I was there, in the front hall. I heard pretty much everything.”

  “I see. And you were not discovered. You are a very adroit young human.”

  “And you’re a very intriguing old sloth. I suppose Clothahump could be right and your whole story could be an elaborate ploy to draw attention to yourself, or get some free sorceral help, or whatever, but I happened to think that there was a lot of conviction in your voice.”

  “The conviction of truth,” Gragelouth replied solemnly.

  “My friends think so too. Just because Clothahump and Jon-Tom don’t feel it’s worthwhile to assist you doesn’t mean no one does.”

  Sleepy eyelids rose as realization dawned on the sloth. “You?”

  “Why not us?” Squill emerged from beneath the wagon, slapping his hat against his side to knock the dust off. “At least we believe in you. ‘Alfway, anyway. We’re younger and more resilient than that oP ‘ardback. More important, we’re willin’ to give you the benefit o’ the doubt, we are.”

  “We’re ready and willing,” Buncan added.

  Gragelouth was silent as he studied his youthful saviors and would-be companions. At last he shook his head slowly, the gray fur rippling.

  “I am sorry, but you cannot come with me.”

  “Why not, guv?” Neena struggled out from beneath the wagon. “Somethin’ about our looks you don’t like?”

  “There is nothing wrong with your appearance, or your enthusiasm. It is your parentage that concerns me. Most especially his.” He pointed at Buncan. “You tell me that your sire is the great spellsinger Jon-Tom. I cannot help but feel that since he declined to aid me himself, he would prefer that you did not substitute in his stead. I cannot chance incurring his wrath, much less that of his colleague the wizard Clothahump.”

  Buncan repositioned the duar against his back. “Yeah, but since he doesn’t believe there’s any truth to your story, that means he doesn’t think mere’s any danger, either. How can something that doesn’t exist pose any threat?”

  “The wizard seemed to think that it does. Besides which the journey itself presents many obstacles that will have to be overcome. But you argue like a solicitor. Clearly you have mastered certain skills.”

  “Like spellsinging,” boasted Buncan proudly.

  “Oi, that’s right enough!” Squill gestured in the direction of the tree-hooked hammer. “Wot did you just think you saw, guv? Unprovoked prestidigitation?” He slipped an arm around Buncan’s waist. “Me sister and I does the singin’ an’ Buncan ‘ere the playin’. We’re a bloody magic-masterin’ trio, we are.”

  “We saved your bleedin’ life,” Neena added pugnaciously.

  “And nearly lost your own in the bargain. Upon extended observation it struck me that you have less than complete control over your conjuring.”

  “Now see ‘ere, mate . . .,” Squill began, but Buncan put out a hand to cut him off.

  “No, Squill. Let’s be honest from the start.”

  “ ‘Onest from the start? Me dad would ‘ave a fit.”

  “Nevertheless.” Buncan looked back to the merchant. “We don’t claim to be masters. There’s still a lot we need to learn. But I’ve spent my whole life watching and studying my father. All I’ve wanted to do is be like him. I can do some spellsinging on my own, but the otters are in better voice, and the three of us have spent so much time growing up together that we’ve been a unit of sorts practically since birth. That’s why we were able to scatter those bandits the way we did.

  “Sure our control isn’t perfect, but neither was my father’s when he started. Maybe we’re not as proficient as him, but we’re a damn sight more powerful than anyone else you’re likely to encounter. Do you still want the kind of special help we can offer, and if so, how badly do you need it?” He stopped, watching the merchant intently.

  Gragelouth sighed. “Your style and sound of spellsinging is entirely new to me. I admit that it frightens me some.”

  “ ‘Ell,” said Squill, “it bloody well frightens us some. Anythin’ new is a little bit frightenin’, wot? But it works.”

  “It nearly worked on you.”

  “That’s a risk we’re willing to take,” said Buncan. “What about you?”

  “You espy clearly my desperate situation.” The merchant sighed deeply. “Have any of you ever taken a long journey away from your homes?”

  “O’ course.” Squill responded without hesitation. “Wot does we look like to you, mewlin’ babes? Why, our sire is Mudge the Stupendous!”

  “Mudge the otter, anyway.” Gragelouth turned contemplative. “I have heard that name elsewhere, though usually in connection with extensive debts long owed or assorted ingenious moral outrages.”

  Neena nodded. “That sounds like Dad right enough.”

  “Yes, I know of his reputation. Mudge the great thief, Mudge the great drunk, Mudge the great wencher, Mudge the great . . .”

  ‘Well, at least the operative adjective is still ‘great,’“ Squill muttered.

  “You have daring and guts,” Gragelouth admitted
. “I wonder how extensive is your quotient of courage.”

  “As big as any bloody merchant’s,” Squill shot back testily.

  “Your inexperience in matters sorceral and otherwise still concerns me,” he readily admitted, “but as is clearly evident I have no army of wizards clamoring to accompany me. There are occasions when youth can work to an advantage. So . . . I will allow you to accompany me until such time as your presence becomes more of a burden than an asset.”

  Buncan couldn’t repress a pleased smile. “I hope we never give you reason to regret your decision, merchant.”

  “Right, then!” chirped Neena. “ Tis on to L’bor.”

  “L’bor?” Gragelouth made room for Buncan on the bench seat and for the others behind. “We do not go to L’bor.”

  Buncan eyed him. “But this is the road to L’bor. That’s where you were heading.”

  “To seek wizardry aid and advice. I now have, the Great Counter watch over me, you three to supply that. So there is no reason to waste time journeying to L’bor. We will procure final supplies at Timswitty, which is nearer, before striking out northwestward.”

  “Northwest.” Squill’s brows scrunched together. “That means crossin’ the Muddletup Moors.”

  “That is correct.” Gragelouth was watching him closely. Watching all of them.

  Squill spat over the side of the wagon. “Piece o’ carp. A little lousy weather, the projected mental murmurin’s o’ some discontented fungi, maybe an ‘umble but interestin’ ogre or two. We’ve ‘eard all about the place from Mudge an’ Jon-Tom. They made it through. So will we.”

  “Bravado is useful when it translates into assurance and not foolhardy overconfidence.” He glanced at Buncan. “Do you have money of your own?”

  “Very little.”

  The merchant nodded resignedly. “My resources are limited. Now it seems they are to be stretched still further. We will manage somehow. When pressed we have my wagon for shelter, though it will be crowded with four of us.” He shuffled the reins in his hands. “We should move on. Great mysteries await resolution.” He chucked the reins and the wagon trundled forward. Squill and Neena settled themselves on some cushions behind the bench seat.

  “You hope to capture, or acquire, this Grand Veritable?” Buncan asked their host.

  “Nothing so estimable,” replied the merchant modestly. “I wish merely to ascertain the truth of gallant Juh Phil’s story. Yes, when that moment arrives it will be good to have three young, strong companions by my side.”

  Buncan repressed a grin. “You forget that I overheard the whole conversation.”

  Gragelouth looked slightly abashed. “Well, there would be nothing immoral in making a profit as well.”

  Tack strained and creaked as the two dray lizards increased their pace, hissing in protest at Gragelouth’s insistent reins.

  Buncan settled himself as comfortably as he could on the padded wooden seat. They were on their way! This must be how his father used to feel when starting off on one of his inimitable adventures. Though if he and Clothahump were right there wouldn’t be any adventure. Just a lot of hard, difficult traveling.

  At least it was a. journey. At his age that was adventure enough in itself. Everything they saw from now on would be new and different from everything which had been seen before, and therefore exciting. Different if not startling, stimulating if not overawing.

  From their excited chatter behind him he could tell that Squill and Neena felt the same way. With the three of them working together he was confident there was nothing they couldn’t handle, no obstacle they could fail to overcome.

  This was a common enough feeling among young men his age, so he could hardly be faulted for thinking like an idiot.

  “Drive on, Gragelouth! We’ll find this Grand Veritable, if it exists, and toss it in your wagon like any other piece of goods. Maybe it’ll be worth a few gold pieces.”

  “All things are possible to those whom life has not yet disenchanted,” the merchant murmured condescendingly without looking up from his team. “You are not afraid, then?”

  “Afraid? Of what?”

  “Of meeting Juh Phit’s fate; Of horrors and obstacles unknown yet to be overcome. Of what the Grand Veritable itself may be or be capable of.”

  “It’s only a thing,” Buncan replied manfully. “I’ve never yet encountered a thing worth fearing. Besides,” he finished aiMfy as he crossed his legs and leaned back, “if it gives us any trouble we’ll just spellsing it away.”

  “Bloody right, mate!” Squill barked belligerently behind nun. “We’ll conjure the bleedin’ wotever it is back into thin air! We can do oversize ‘ammers. Why not a Grand Veritable?”

  “Whatever it is indeed,” murmured Gragelouth. “We may hope to survive long enough to find out.”

  From the undergrowth several pairs of eyes watched the wagon disappear over the next rise in the road. Their owners were exhausted and battered, scratched and torn from their wild flight through the brush, worn out from avoiding the crush of the thaumaturgical hammer. Some studied that apparition warily where it rested high up in the trees. It had not moved for some tune, but where the necromantic arts were concerned nothing, absolutely nothing, could be taken for granted.

  “Pulp their eyes!” chattered a ringtail. “Who knew the interfering ones were spellsingers?”

  “None could have foreseen it,” insisted the coati who led them. His eyes flashed almost as brightly as the diamond in his left canine. “Children! Are you all to be put to flight by children?”

  “Not me,” said another ringtail. “Not by cubs of any species.”

  One of the assembled raccoons spoke up. “Sorcery invoked by children is still sorcery, and any sensible person fears that.”

  “They were lucky, that’s all.” The coati gestured toward the hanging hammer. “Did you not see how after putting us to flight it turned on its conjurers and tried to kill them? They are inexperienced and callow.”

  “I’m not interested in what it did after it tried to kill us,” growled another raccoon. “I saw what it did to poor Jachay. He was my friend. Now he’s a smear on the ground.”

  “Aye,” said a ringtail. “That’s sorcery of a kind I’ve no desire to encounter again. Certainly not for what poor swag a humble merchant’s wagon might contain.”

  The coati raged among his followers. “They caught us by surprise, that’s all! A little stealth, a little planning next time, arid we’ll take them before they can sing up so much as a blue wasp!” His voice dropped ominously. “Hard to spellsing with your throat cut.”

  “And if we fail?” the ringtail wanted to know. “What then? Will assurances and excuses deliver us?”

  “Me, I’m not going to chance finding out.” Hefting his war ax, one of the reluctant raccoons turned and stalked off toward the road, not in pursuit of the vanished wagon but south, toward Lynchbany.

  “Go then, Wrochek!” the coati yelled after him. “Flee to the safety of a Thieves’ Hall and a protected bed.”

  “Sounds good to me,” confessed one of the ringtails. He promptly broke into a trot to catch up with the raccoon.

  Their impudent departure started a minor rush. Even the spectacled bear lumbered off to join his defecting friends.

  “Even you, Sinwahh, put to flight by infants!” The coati’s sneers trailed them remorselessly. “All of you ‘brave’ robbers, terrified by three cubs and some strange music. Cowards, weaklings! Offspring of discount whores! You’ll not share in our bounty!”

  “Is there any bounty, o revered leader Charming?” The one raccoon who’d stayed behind was uncertain.

  “Aye,” wondered the ringtail who’d remained. “The sloth looked like nothing but a simple merchant.”

  The coati turned violently on his small constituency, all that remained of his once powerful band. “You believe that? Then you’re no better than those spineless fools who’ve fled. What ‘simple merchant’ merits rescue by three spellsingers, even youn
g ones? Do you imagine that the newcomers risked their lives out of the goodness of their hearts, or from some imagined debt to the trader?” He spun ‘round to glare at the northern stretch of now empty road.

  “There’s mote at stake here than pots and pans. There’s something in that wagon worth dying for. A lifetime’s savings in gold, perhaps, or precious stones garnered in Glittergeist trade. Or something even more valuable we cannot imagine. Something worm the concern of young wizards.” He turned back to his two anxious companions.

  “You are right, Sisarfi. That wagon is not worth the attention of common thieves. But I am not common, and by cleaving to me and my leadership you bask in the glory of my uncommonness.”

  “Uh, thanks.” Though obviously confused, the ringtail instinctively sensed it would be impolitic to seek further clarification. He rubbed at the place on his head where his left ear used to be. It had been sacrificed many years before in a badly bollixed attempt at robbing a riverboat.

  “Those fools.” Chamung turned his gaze to the road leading south. “They’ll find no profit in Lynchbany. They’ll starve. It’s a town overrun with thieves, and half of them don’t even have Guild cards. All profit entails some risk, and we’re not afraid of a little risk, are we? Come!” He stalked determinedly toward the road, aiming north. “We’ll have our profit, and revenge for our poor brother Jachay as well! Already my mind ferments with provocative scenarios for entertaining disembowelments.”

  The ringtail and raccoon exchanged a distinctly hesitant look before following.

  CHAPTER 7

  The wagon wound its way through the bellwoods until a barely visible leftward branching in the road that Buncan would not even have guessed was there drew Gragelouth to the west. As their new route was not merely less traveled but practically nonexistent, their progress was slow. The terrain remained relatively level and firm.

  The Bellwoods did not so much meld into the Moors as give way abruptly. One moment they were traveling among healthy oaks and sycamores, belltrees and glissando bushes, accompanied by the singing of crywail lizards and the hum of insects, and the next found them passing between cinder-gray groves and the inert hulks of long-dead trees.