Son Of Spellsinger

“I see somethin’ movin’!” Squill rose and pointed to their left.

A flash of movement among the undergrowth, a glimpse of bright red fireflies; then nothing. Gragelouth sat rigid on the bench. There was nothing he could do to speed his plodding, slow-witted team along the slick, potholed path. His nose twitched.

“I sense many presences.”

Buncan eyed him curiously. “You can sense presences?”

“A metaphor, young human. Can’t you feel them out there, around us?”

“I don’t feel anything except damp depression.” He fingered the duar nervously.

“No aura of menace? No overweening sense of incipient doom?”

“No more so than what we’ve been feeling since we left the Bell woods.” The baying and howling was constant around them now, drowning out the other background sounds of the Moors.

“Then you may be a spellsinger, or half a one, anyway,” the sloth murmured, “but your perception leaves much to be desired.”

So does your breath, Duncan wanted to say, but he was interrupted by Squill’s sudden shout.

“Crikey!” The otter was pointing again.

This time Buncan had no trouble picking out the pair of burning red eyes directly in front of them. They bobbed slightly as they advanced on the wagon. Unable to turn either to right or left, Gragelouth tugged on the reins and brought the cumbersome vehicle to a grinding halt. As he did so, the owner of the fiery gaze appeared out of the mist.

Standing just under five and a half feet tall, the hound had teeth that gleamed in the baleful light. Prominent fangs hung from the upper jaw. The canine specter wore a muckledidun shirt and pants tucked into high boots. Protruding from the trousers, the short tail switched back and forth like a metronome. Or a scythe.

A short sword with an unusually heavy, sharply curved blade hung with studied indifference from one paw. It would take a powerful individual to wield such a weapon with one hand, Buncan knew. His own fingers rested on the duar’s strings as he exchanged a meaningful glance with the otters. They nodded understanding, though there was no reason to spellsing yet. While the Moor dweller’s aspect was intimidating, he’d made nothing in the way of an overt threat. Yet.

A second pair of eyes materialized out of the mist. Another, and another, and more. All were hounds, though of varying shape, coloration, and size. All were heavily armed.

The one who confronted them had a spiked collar encircling his neck. The spikes had been filed to fine points. None of the others wore anything like formal armor, though Buncan noted an abundance of spiked leg-pieces and wristbands.

Taken in toto they were an altogether disagreeable-looking lot. It was clear they were not out haunting the Moors in search of a casual day’s stroll. By the same token, it was difficult to countenance the possibility that they actually lived there, though their appearance suggested a condition and lifestyle even the Moors would be hard-pressed to worsen.

Advancing around the team, the lead hound finally halted to confront the wagon’s occupants. As he looked them slowly up and down, Buncan could see the play of muscles across the broad chest and thickly bunched upper arms. As it stared it methodically slapped the heavy blade of its curved sword against an open palm.

“We don’t get many travelers out here in the Moors.” The voice was a rough, curdled growl, the words crumbling against the heavy palate like gravel in a crusher.

“Not enough,” quipped one of the others. Low, ominous laughter came from the rest of the band, which by now had completely surrounded the wagon.

“Where are you headed?” inquired the leader.

“To the northwest.” Gragelouth kept his eyes down, avoiding the hound’s burning gaze, the reins of his team clutched tightly in his thick, furry fingers.

“That’s not very informative. Where to the northwest?”

“Does it matter?”

“No, I suppose not.”

Buncan leaned forward. “We’ve come a long way and have a lot farther to go. If you’re bandits, say so now and we’ll give you our money.” Gragelouth turned sharply to his youthful companion, his pupils widening.

“Can’t step anywhere these days without ‘avin’ to scrape scum off your feet,” Squill muttered.

The hound glared up at him. “What was that?”

Squill smiled pleasantly. “I said that it were ‘and to get around these days.”

The hound’s intensity diminished, but only slightly. “It certainly is if your destination brings you through the Moors. None come this way who can go otherwise.”

“To go completely around the Moors would have taken too much time,” Gragelouth mumbled deferentially.

“And yet there are many dangers here.” Apparently the leader was in a conversational mood.

A hound with a mottled black-and-brown visage edged nearer. A grisly scar ran from the top of his skull down across his face and clear around to the back of his neck. Its pattern and angle suggested a botched attempt at decapitation.

“More dangers than you can imagine,” he grunted.

“Time is important to us,” Gragelouth replied lamely.

“We won’t delay you long.” The leader grinned hideously. “Just hand over everything you own.”

Gragelouth swallowed, looking resigned. “I have some money . . .”

“Oti, we don’t just want your money,” the hound explained. “We’ll take your personal effects, too, and your weapons, and your clothes. And I’ll personally have that interesting-looking musical device there.” A clawed finger singled out Duncan’s duar. “Also your wagon and team.”

“Don’t tell me you need to get somewhere in a hurry, too,” muttered Neena.

“Not at all.” The hound stroked the flank of the nearest dray lizard. It bore the caress complacently. “But these look quite savory. You know, there’s not a lot for a carnivore to dine on out here in the Moors, and we prefer to avoid the cities. For some mysterious reason town dwellers are shocked by our attitudes and appearance.” Several of the hounds within hearing range chuckled unpleasantly.

“In fact,” the creature continued remorselessly, his eyes burning into Buncan’s own, “you look quite edible yourselves.”

“Oi,” Neena husked under her breath, “we’ve fallen in among a lot of bloody cannibals!”

“And just what is a cannibal, my fuzzy little bars d’oeuvre?” the hound challenged her. “A term charged with all manner of absurdly sensationalist undertones. There was a time in the far distant past when it was the natural order of things for those with warm blood to devour omen of land. Meat is meat. We who are forced to dwell in the dank depths of the Moors cannot afford to discriminate. Where consumption is concerned we are wholly democratic: We’ll eat anyone.” He was still smiling.

“So we’ll have everything you own, and we’ll have you as well.” He glanced toward the strings of utensils dangling from the rear and sides of the wagon. “It was thoughtful of you to provide the means for your own preparation. At least you will expire in familiar surroundings.”

“We won’t go without a fight!” Squill rose sharply behind the driver’s bench, an arrow notched in his bow. Neena rose beside him, similarly prepared.

“Oh my, oh dear.” The hound tut-tutted as he took a step backward. His companions chortled darkly. “The terror! The fear! Can it be we are surprised?” He caressed the heavy curved blade of his sword. “All of us against three cubs and an old sloth? How ever will we survive? One trifle before we begin, though. I ask the names of those who would provide entertainment before dinner.”

“I’m Squill, son o’ Mudge. This ‘ere’s me sister Neena. That’s Mudge the Traveler, Mudge the Conqueror, Mudge the AU-Revengin’ to you.”

“Never heard of bun,” the hound responded briskly.

It was Buncan’s turn. “I’m Buncan Ottermusk Meriweather. Son of the greatest spellsinger in all of time and space, Jonathan Thomas Meriweather.”

“All those names.” The hound snorted. “Never heard of him either. We’re not much for celebrity here in the Moors.” He glanced to Buncan’s right. “And you? Speak up, sloth.”

The merchant flinched. “I am called Gragelouth. A simple barterer in household goods and services.”

“Well, tonight you’ll be called supper.” Within the hound’s jaws, filed teeth gleamed menacingly.

Buncan was whispering to his friends. “Lyrics? Don’t you have any lyrics yet? What’s keeping you?”

“I can’t think o’ any songs about ‘ounds,” Neena hissed. “These ‘ere blokes are about the first o’ their kind I’ve ever encountered.”

“ ‘Ow do you get rid o’ ‘ounds?” Squill wondered aloud.

“I don’t know either, but you’d better think of something quick. There’s too many of them for arrows, and they make the ones who tried to rob Gragelouth back in the Bellwoods look like country bumpkins.” He turned back to the leader, trying to stall for time.

“Now it’s my turn. Who threatens us, with no regard for our ancestry or the revenge that will surely follow if any harm befalls us?”

“Nothing follows into the Moors,” the hound growled belligerently. “Not kings seeking reluctant subjects nor sorcerers searching for strayed apprentices. Certainly not revenge. This place is the womb of bleakness, and we are its offspring. We who survive here do so only by giving in to woe. It suffuses our very beings. So do not think to appeal to our better nature, because we have none. Though I admit that your presence makes us feel better. It’s rare we come across food that has not already begun to rot.”

“That doesn’t tell me who you are.” Behind him, the otters composed frantically.

“We are all hounds here, as you can see.” The leader gestured expansively. “We are the hounds that haunt your dreams and chase you through your nightmares. We supply the howling you hear in your sleep, the growls that make you toss and turn uneasily, the shrill unexpected barks that you take for those of your neighbor.” He pointed with his sword.

“There stands the hound of the Mitrevilles, and next to him the hound of the Toonervilles. Off to the left waits the hound of the Cantervilles.” He went on to identify each member of the band by name.

It granted the travelers a few precious additional minutes. “Anything?” Buncan whispered to the otters.

“Wot is there to think of?” Despair had overcome Gragelouth, and the merchant held his woolly head in his paws. “All is lost. These are no ordinary brigands. It will take more than music to overcome them. They have remorse and anguish on their side.” He sighed heavily. “So much work, a lifetime of struggle, only to end up as a dog’s dinner. An inglorious finale. I regret that I have brought you to such a state.”

“We’re not there yet,” Buncan told him. “My friends will think of something.”

“Not me, mate,” said Squill helplessly.

“Me neither,” added Neena. “Wot about you, Buncan? Can’t you think of anything?”

“I’m not the singer.”

“But you could give us the words!” she pleaded. “A suggestion, a direction we could take. Anythin’ !”

“I don’t know anything about hounds,” he whispered desperately. “I spent all my time learning how to play the duar, not make up—” He broke off, remembering unexpectedly. “There is this old song. I remember Jon-Tom used to sing it to me when I was young. Real young. A baby song. It never made any sense to me, but it might fit this situation. A little. It’s all I can think of.”

“No time for debate,” Squill pointed out. “Try it.”

Buncan’s fingers rested tensely on the duar. “It’s no rap,” he warned them.

Neena smiled wolfishly. “We’ll take care o’ that. Just give us some bleedin’ words we can work with.”

“It goes like this.” He proceeded to whisper what he could remember of the saccharine little tune.

Squill looked doubtful. “If you don’t mind me sayin’ so, the tone ain’t exactly sorceral.”

“Rap it,” he urged them, “and let me play. We’ve got to try something.” He indicated the leader, who was winding up his litany.

“ . . . And I,” the thick-set creature concluded, “am the hound of the Baskervilles.”

Buncan frowned. “I may have heard of you.” The hound looked pleased. “So our reputation reaches even beyond the Moors. That is gratifying, but not unexpected. The peculiar mists and winds of the Muddletup transport much that is within without.” He raised his sword. “Now that you know who will be dining upon you, we can begin. It is time to substitute butchery for conversation. But tremble not. We are not brutal. We will make this as quick as possible. When you have determined that resistance is not only foolish but painful, simply put down your arms and lay your heads out parallel to the earth. I will do the honors myself. My colleagues tend to sloppiness.”

Buncan put up a hand to forestall the hound’s approach. “Wait! A last song before dying. If you would be thought generous, grant us this one final amusement.”

The hound frowned. “Music does not do well here. The air weighs it down. But if you prefer that to battle, have at it.”

“Oi, thanks,” said Squill. “Me, I’d rather go out with a song.” He set his bow and arrow aside.

“Be quick about it,” the hound grumbled. “My stomach complains.”

Buncan began to play. Recalling the lyrics he had supplied, the otters joined in, transposing and transforming, engendering a rap unlike anything they’d tried before.

“ ‘Ow much, ‘ow much, ‘ow much? ‘Ow much is that doggie, that one there Can’t compare, to the one over there In the window, dude, in the window, where You can’t compare any one you knowed Before the war, to the one in the window. Don’t you see; ‘ow much is she?”

The hounds looked at once bored and baffled as Buncan piled chord upon chord, uplifting the strange lyrics, providing them with an irresistible forward thrust that would no doubt have astonished the composers of the original ditty.

Nothing happened.

No giant otherdimensional carnivorous canine materialized to terrify the hounds into submission, no befanged beasts oozed up out of the muck to attack them individually. Nor did the words result in the conjuration of some ensorceled offensive-minded device like a giant hammer.

“Put your hearts into it!” Buncan hissed angrily at his companions. Neena responded with an obscene gesture born of desperation as much as frustration.

This is it, he thought tiredly to himself. Not only are we destined to go no farther, we hardly got started. Put a few common forest bandits to flight and you think you can take on the world. Then- demise would be as abrupt as it would be degrading.

A purplish-red mist began to form between the wagon and the leader of the hounds.

The dray lizards started in harness, hissing and spitting wildly, forcing the startled Gragelouth to work his reins to maintain control. The hound hopped backward, thrusting his sword out defensively in front of him. Nervous mutterings sounded from the members of his band.

“Keep singing, no matter what it is, keep singing!” Buncan urged his friends. The otters needed no encouragement, plying variation upon variation on the now fully possessed melody. In their own way they were as entranced as the hounds.

What was it they were spellsinging forth?

The mist swirled aimlessly, as if searching for a seed, a core, to fix upon. At last it began to coalesce. Silhouettes appeared, gradually congealing into shapes that boasted both density and weight.

They flashed no armor, wielded no weapons. In fact, they were hardly clad at all, and what they did wear was designed more to flaunt than to conceal. Buncan counted a good dozen of the ghostly figures, precisely one for each member of the voracious circle.

While not all were hounds, each was flatteringly representative of the canine persuasion. Even his inexperienced eyes found their attire of silks and satins provocative.

In addition to which, each and every one of them was fully in heat.

The effect the dozen seductive bitches had on the assembled hounds was nothing short of apocalyptic. Buncan watched as the first let his sword drop from his benumbed fingers. Wearing an utterly stupefied expression, he stumbled forward into the waiting arms of the bitch nearest him. She embraced bun with the ease and skill of an experienced professional.

The leader made an effort to save his distracted band, raging among them with words and blows. Then a tall, immaculately coiffed Afghan slunk forward to give him a gentle chuck under his chin. His sword rose but his gaze descended. His nose twitched convulsively, at which point he had no choice but to switch weapons.

“Get moving!” Buncan whispered tersely to the mesmerized merchant without slowing his playing.

Gragelouth looked blank for a moment, then chucked the reins with becoming fervor. Tack creaked and groaned as the lizards picked up their feet. The wagon trundled forward.

No one jumped in their path or made any effort to interfere with them.

Leaning out of the bench seat and looking backward, Buncan thought he saw the hound of the Baskervilles trying to break free of the orgy. The wild-eyed leader went down under the weight of not one but two of the expensive bitches-of-the-evening Buncan and the otters had called forth. He did not reemerge.

As they fled unhindered into the vastness of the Moors the travelers heard one last time the collective baying of the hounds, but that hitherto mournful echo sounded now rather more enthusiastic than threatening.

Only when they were well away did Buncan put his duar aside, wondering as he did so what would happen when the seductive spirits he and the otters had called forth ceased their frenetic ministrations and finally demanded payment for their services. He was certain they would, for the lyrics of the spellsong had been forthright in their mention of price.

Squill clapped him on the back. “That were bloody brilliant, mate! Did you see their faces? Be buggered if I don’t envy ‘em.”

Neena simply shook her head in disgust. “I’m surprised you didn’t join in, bro’.”

Squill’s nose wrinkled. “The timin’s ‘ardly right. When they finish, that lot’s gonna be even ‘ungrier than before.”

“I didn’t have any idea it would work.” Buncan protested modestly. “That wasn’t exactly the kind of cost-related result I would have expected, either. But it was the only ‘hound’-related song I could mink of at the time.” He shrugged. “That’s spellsinging for you. By the way, you two were amazing.”

“Well, o’ course,” Neena agreed without hesitation.

“It was just a baby song,” Buncan added.

“Childhood imagery contains much power,” Gragelouth commented. “I must apologize.”

“For what?” Buncan wanted to know.

“For ever doubting your spellsinging abilities. It is evident now that your youth is not overmuch of a meliorating factor.”

“Beg pardon?” said Squill. His sister cuffed him.

“We got lucky,” Buncan confessed. “We might just as easily be someone’s dinner.”

“Do not make light of what you have done. Your talents are undeniable.” For the first time since Buncan had set eyes on him, Gragelouth looked almost happy.

“ ‘E’s right, Buncoos.” Neena leaned forward and put her short arms around him. Her whiskers tickled the back of his neck. “OF Clothabump may be more experienced, and Jon-Tom slicker, but we three are the greatest spellsingin’ team that ever was.”

“Let’s not get carried away by a couple of lucky successes,” Buncan chided her. But he had to admit he felt good about their prospects.

“So we’ve proved ourselves to you, droopy-lips?” Neena prodded the merchant.

“We have barely begun.” Gragelouth tried to avoid her teasing finger. He didn’t like to be touched, Buncan had noticed. “There will doubtless be other dangers to deal with, other confrontations.”

“Maybe not,” said Squill cheerily. “Maybe it’ll be smooth swimmin’ all the way to the northwest. ‘Ell, we’re about through the Moors and we’ve ‘andled not one but two lot o’ bandits on the way.”

“Perhaps you are right.” The merchant sat a little straighter on his bench. “Though it is not in my nature, perhaps I should be more assured.”

“Do wonders for your social life, mate.” Squill put a paw on the sloth’s shoulder. “You just tend to the drivin’ and we’ll take care o’ any nasties that ‘ave the nerve to cross us.”

Gragelouth nodded slowly. “I only hope that your skills ripen as rapidly as your presumption, river-runner.”

CHAPTER 8

For a time it seemed as if squill was right to be so confident. The rest of their journey through the Muddletup Moors proceeded without incident, marred only by a damaged wheel that the merchant quickly and efficiently repaired. As they pushed on, Duncan played frequently and the otters sang to keep the enervating atmosphere of the Moors at bay. Of the hounds there was no sign, nor did anything more inimical than a bellicose toadstool attempt to hinder their progress.

Eventually they emerged from the dour surroundings of the Moors onto a wide, lightly vegetated plain that was different from any country Buncan or the otters had ever seen. Having grown up in the lush confines of the Bellwoods, they were immediately intrigued by the stunted trees and dense, dry-leaved bushes and grasses that covered the land.

“Oi, is this the desert?” Neena asked wonderingly as the wagon rattled down the barely visible track. “I’ve ‘eard about the desert, I ‘ave.” Behind them a low bank of permanent, purulent fog obscured the western reaches of the Moors. Bright sunshine had banished the last psychic echoes of manic-depressive fungi from (heir minds. It was a pleasure to let down their mental guard.

Pirouetting breezes swept blue-stained dirt into occasional dust devils. Broad-winged flying lizards sculpted predatory patterns in the air, searching for smaller, gravity-bound prey below. Slim, hasty creatures with multiple legs scurried out of the wagon’s path to vanish down camouflaged holes and burrows.

“No, this isn’t the desert,” Gragelouth patiently explained. “There’s far too much water present, and the abundance of plants reflects that. I would call this upland scrubland.”

He nodded in the direction of high, chapparal-covered mesas. Where flowing water had eroded the hillsides multicolored sandstone sparkled in the sun like the layers of a coronation cake. “Pretty, that.”

Buncan agreed, and would have enjoyed spending a day or two exploring such country, but they had no time to linger. In any event, the otters did not share his enthusiasm for casual sight-seeing. The absence of running water made them nervous.

The landscape changed little over the next few days. Desert it might not be, but it was more than hot enough for everyone. Fortunately, water in greater quantities soon showed itself in the small streams that ran down from the mesa tops, and in shaded pools deep enough to offer the otters an occasional reinvigorating plunge.

“Doesn’t anyone live out here?” Buncan asked the question of their guide on the fourth day out from the Moors. The wagon squeaked in counterpoint to his query.

“There are tales of communities,” Gragelouth replied, “but this is little-known country. Civilized folk keep to the Bellwoods, or travel south to the Tailaroam and thence down to the Glittergeist or up the river to Polastrindu.”

“Don’t see why anyone would choose to live ‘ere.” Neena sniffed distastefully as she studied the uninviting terrain. “Too dry, too isolated, wot?”

“Some people prefer isolation,” the merchant told her. “I have traded with such.”

“Each to their own tastes, I suppose.”

“This track we’re following must run somewhere,” her brother observed sagely, “little used though it is.”

Sure enough, not another day had passed before they topped a low rise between boulders that gave way to a view of a verdant valley. Two broad streams meandered through well-tended fields, which surrounded a town of surprising dimensions.

Behind a smooth-faced white wall with a curved crest towered buildings of three and four stories, all plastered and painted the same stark, reflective white. Under the midday sun the city shone so brightly that the approaching travelers had to shield their eyes against it. Gragelouth in particular suffered considerably.

Like everything else, the sight only served to inspire the otters. “Where’s this, or maybe I should say, wot’s this?” Squill’s short tail twitched excitedly.

“I do not know,” the merchant admitted. “As I have already said, I have never been this way before.”

“Sure is well kept-up,” Buncan commented as they followed the faint wagon track toward the nearest city gate. He was well aware that the otters were avidly eyeing the nearest of the two main streams. “I don’t know about anyone else, but I could do with a swim.”

Tentative as always, Gragelouth pursed thick lips as he considered the prospect. “The local farmers may not like people bathing in their irrigation water.”

“Chill out,” Squill admonished him. “We’ll turn off before we reach the city wall and slip in somewhere upstream. No one’ll see us.”

“They may not mind. The community looks quite prosperous,” Gragelouth had to admit.

As Squill surmised, their brief swim passed unnoticed. All were in high good spirits as they dried themselves in the sun while the merchant drove the wagon back toward the city. There were numerous tracks to follow now. Farmers’ wagons, Buncan thought.

As they approached a city gate other vehicles could be seen entering and leaving: wagons piled high with produce or supplies, two-wheeled carts, riders on individual mounts, preoccupied pedestrians. As was typical, Buncan was taller than any of them. His unusual height, he knew, was a gift of his father’s otherworldly origins.

It was Squill who first noticed the anomaly.

“Crikey,” he exclaimed in surprise as they drew near enough to distinguish individuals. “They’re all bloody rodents!”

It was true. The city was populated entirely by rats, mice, squirrels, and their relations. There were no canines, felines, primates, or ungulates; no representatives of any of the other great tribes of the warm-blooded. Such species isolation was unprecedented in their experience. It was almost as if the inhabitants had chosen to segregate themselves. Despite the city’s evident prosperity, Buncan knew that such a sequestered population would inevitably make for cultural famine.

Back in the civilized world the representatives of the rodentia had often been looked down upon, until they had helped to turn the tide against the Plated Folk at the battle of the Jo-Troom Pass. So it was most unexpected to find so many of them living like this, isolated from the great and wondrous diversity of the wider world.

Neena was standing on the cushions back of the bench. “Look at them. No expressions o’ individuality at all.”

Indeed, regardless of tribe everyone mey saw was clad entirely in white sheets or robes. These extended in unbroken fashion from head to foot save for slits for ears and tail, and an oval opening for the face. White sandals shod feet regardless of size or shape. Within this all-pervasive whiteness there was room for some variation, with buttons, belts, lace, and other trim of exquisite detail and design providing the only distincti veness in the absence of color. In addition to then: voluminous robes, some additionally wore masks or scarves of embroidered white, perhaps to keep out the dust while working in the fields, Buncan surmised.

More notable even than the unvarying whiteness was the immaculate condition of the city and its citizens. Buncan could not find a spot of mud, a chunk of decaying plaster, or a blighted structure anywhere as they passed through the unbarred gate into the city proper. A pan- of squat capybara guards followed the wagon with their eyes but made no move to confront it. Then- ceremonial pikes were fashioned of bircli wood tipped with blades of sharpened milk quartz.

A warren of structures began immediately inside the gate. Modest or excessive, all were plastered or painted white. Awnings of white cloth shaded small street-side stalls or upper-story windows framed with intricately carved white shutters. The street down which they plodded was cleaner than the tables of most taverns in Lynchbany.

“This whiteness must have religious or social significance,” Gragelouth was commenting. “Such uniformity could not persist in the absence of some pressure to conform.”

“Poking dull, I calls it,” said Squill.

“White reflects the sun and keeps everything cooler,” Oragelouth pointed out, unintentionally defending the city’s inhabitants.

“Wonder what they must be making of us,” Duncan mused aloud. “Judging from the stares we’ve been drawing since we arrived, they don’t see many outsiders here.”

“Who’d come “ere,” Neena pointed out, “if you ‘ad to punch through the Moors first?”

“All this uniformity makes me uncomfortable,” said Gragelouth. “It implies a rigidity of thinking inimical to trade. We will linger only long enough to replenish our supplies.”

“Be good to sleep in a real bed,” Squill commented, “not to mention ‘avin’ sometbin’ decent to eat for a change.”

Gragelouth brought the wagon to a halt before a two-story structure with no windows in the upper floor. Several other vehicles and then- reptiles were tethered nearby. A large, powerful monitor lizard hissed but made room for the newcomers.

“I am a merchant by trade,” he responded with some dignity. “Not a cook.” He climbed down from the bench seat.

Locals hurrying up and down the street on business stared unabashedly, their snouts and whiskers protruding from their hooded attire. Duncan dismounted to stand next to Gragelouth. He could overhear but not decipher the whispered comments of the passersby.

“Crikey, maybe they’re afraid of us.” Squill rested one paw on the hilt of his short sword.

“No, I do not get that feeling. It is something else.” Gragelouth spoke as he considered the building before them. “I wonder if we are welcome here, or if it might not be better to move on.”

“Should be able to find out quickly enough.” Duncan placed himself directly in the path of a three-foot-tall mouse with a peculiar bushy tail. It halted uncertainly, gazing up at the towering human.

“What place is this? We’re strangers to mis city,” Duncan hoped he sounded firm but friendly.

The mouse gestured with a tiny hand on which reposed half a dozen exquisitely fashioned rings of white gold.

“Why, this is Hygria of the Plains, primate. Now please, let me pass.” He looked anxiously, not at Duncan, but at those of his fellow citizens who had gathered in front of the windowless building to watch.

Duncan didn’t move. “A moment of your time, sir. We need to avail ourselves of your city’s hospitality. Can you tell us where we might find suitable food and lodging?”

The mouse swallowed, turned. “From this point inward the streets grow narrow. You will have to leave your animals and vehicle here. As to your personal needs, you might try the Inn of the All-Scouring Deatitudes. It sometimes will accommodate travelers. Second avenue on your left.” The rodent hesitated. “Though were I you I would not linger here, but would take your wagon and depart soonest.”

“Why? We just got here.” Duncan’s gaze narrowed.

The mouse seemed more anxious than ever to be on his way. “You have broken the law.”

Duncan looked to Gragelouth, who shook his head uncomprehendingly. “What law? We haven’t been here long enough to break any laws.” Those citizens assembled in front of the building were suddenly acting furtive, as if simply hovering in the vicinity of the outlandish visitors constituted in itself a kind of daring complicity in outrages anonymous.

“I have done my courtesy.” The mouse abruptly folded both hands beneath its white robe, bowed, and scurried off to his left, dodging before Duncan could again block bis path.

“Cor, come ‘ave a look!” Turning, Duncan saw the otters standing beneath a canopy across the street. Sauntering over, he saw that they were inspecting the wares of a very nervous jerboa vegetable seller. There were white onions, and white grapes, and a kind of oblong white melon, but there were also peppers and tomatoes and other more familiar produce.

“At least everythin’ ‘ere ain’t white,” Squill commented.

Neena held up something like a pale-white peppermint-striped cucumber. “ ‘Ow much for this, madame?”

The jerboa fluttered her paws at them, the tall turban atop her head threatening to collapse at any moment. “Go ‘way, go ‘way!” She was peering fretfully down the street.

“ ‘Ere now, don’t be like that,” said Neena. “I’m just ‘ungry, is all.” She presented a fistful of coins. “Ain’t none o’ this good ‘ere?”

“Yes, yes, it’s all good.” With an air of desperation the jerboa reached out and plucked a couple of minor corns from Neena’s hand, practically shoving the vegetable at her. “Now go, go away.”

The three nonplussed shoppers rejoined Gragelouth. “Well, they ain’t “ostile.” Neena gnawed on the blunt end of the peculiar vegetable. “This ain’t ‘alf bad. Kind o’ a nutty flavor.”

“fits you, then.” Squill never missed an opportunity. “No, they’re not ‘ostile. Just bloomin’ antisocial.”

Buncan was gazing down the street. “Let’s see if we can find that inn.” He called back to the vegetable seller. “If we leave our property here, will it be safe?”

The merchant’s previous concern became outrage. “Of course! This is Hygria. No one would approach, much less try to plunder, anything so unclean as your belongings.”

“Certainly are proud of their cleanliness,” Buncan commented as they started down the street.

“Yes,” agreed Gragelouth. “One might almost say they make a fetish of it.”

“Makes it inviting for visitors.”

“Does it?” the merchant murmured. “I wonder.”

As they made their way down the narrow avenue, Buncan looked for but was unable to find a spot of garbage, junk, or misplaced dirt. Hygria was without a doubt the cleanest community he had ever seen. By comparison Lynchbany, a comparatively well-kept forest town, was a fetid cesspool.

Gragelouth turned to glance back up the street at where they’d left their wagon. “I think that female was telling the truth. I believe our goods will be safe. Not that you three have anything to worry about. All you brought along you carry with you.”

“Wot’s this?” Squill’s tone was mocking. “Trust? That’s not like you, merchant.”

The sloth indicated the narrow avenue. “As we were told, this byway is too narrow for my wagon. There are only pedestrians here. And I found that stall owner’s expression of distaste convincing.”

Neena let her gaze wander from structure to structure, each as pristine white as its neighbor. “This place could use a little livenin’ up. It’s so bleedin’ stiff and clean it makes me teeth “urt.”

They found the inn, its entrance clearly marked by a sign of carved white wood which overhung the street. But before they had a chance to enter, their attention was drawn to a singular entourage approaching from the far end of the street.

A line of half a dozen white-shrouded mice and cavis marching abreast was coming toward them. With fanatical single-mindedness each attacked his or her portion of the avenue with a short-handled, wide-bristled broom. They were followed by a number of mice, pacas, and muskrats armed with wheeled containers and double-handed scoops.

Advancing with the precision of a military drill unit, mis furry assemblage was doing everything but polishing the smooth stones that paved the street. Buncan strained but could not see beyond the wispy cloud of dust they raised. Perhaps the polishers, he reflected only half sarcastically, would come later.

“Blimey, would you take a look at that,” Squill muttered. “That’s carryin’ cleanliness too far.”

“No wonder that little jerboa thought us unclean,” Buncan added.

Neena couldn’t repress a whiskery smirk. “Maybe that’s why they call this kind o’ country scrubland.” She ducked a blow from her brother.

Buncan confronted a well-dressed, slightly corpulent cap-ybara as he emerged from the cool darkness of the inn. His fur was cut in bangs over his forehead.

He eyed Buncan and his companions askance. “Where have you people come from?”

“Out o’ the Moors,” said Squill proudly.

The capy squinted at him, his blunt muzzle twitching. “I doubt that, but it’s obvious you’re not from around here.”

Buncan indicated the approaching street sweepers. “How often do they do that?”

“Several times each day, of course.” The capy sniffed disdainfully, careful to keep his distance from the tall human. “That’s the hygiene patrol.”

Squill started to snigger. “Patrol? What do they do when they find dirt? Arrest it?” Gragelouth made anxious silencing motions at the otter, which Squill naturally ignored.

“As strangers here, you self-evidently do not understand. We are proud of our ways.” The capy sniffed. “If I were you, I’d get out of sight as soon as possible.”

“Why?” Buncan recalled the mouse’s warning.

“Because you do not measure up to local standards. Now, if you will excuse me.”

Buncan stepped aside and watched the capy waddle away up the street. “Wonder what he meant by that.”

“I do not know,” said Gragelouth, “but we had better move or we are liable to find ourselves swept up together with the dust and dirt.”

They entered into the inn just as the patrol reached them, watched as it literally swept past. Their precision was impressive, Buncan had to admit. As soon as they’d passed he stepped back out Into the street, following them with his gaze.

“I mink that’s it.”

A ringer tapped him on the shoulder. “Not quite, mate.”

Squill nodded down the street. Advancing in the sweepers’ wake was a squad of eight pike-armed pacas, squirrels, degus, capys, and assorted others. They marched in two lines, one behind the other, blocking the street from side to side, their white uniforms Immaculate. Each wore an inscribed headband beneath his flowing headgear. The insignia of a large rat marching in front gleamed golden.

Buncan met his gaze evenly as the entire squad halted outside the inn. The rat’s disgust as he inspected the travelers was almost palpable.

“Strangers,” he muttered. “Just arrived?”

“That’s right,” admitted Buncan. He suddenly sensed Gragelouth trying to fade into the shadows behind him.

A pair of degus stepped inside, squeezing past the otters. “You’ll have to come with us,” the rat told him.

Buncan frowned. “What for? We were just going to see about a couple of rooms.”

“Accommodation will be provided for you.” The rat barked an order, and the business ends of seven pikes inclined in their direction.

Buncan put his hand on his sword, felt Gragelouth close beside him. “We are deep within the city. Fighting will do us no good here.” As usual, the merchant made sense. Buncan forced himself to relax. “They may only wish to question us,” the sloth went on. “Perhaps we will have to pay a fine. Whatever they want, it would be premature to start a ruckus.”

“Speak for yourself,” said Squill, but he did not reach for his own weapons.

“We haven’t done anything.” Buncan took a step forward.

The three-and-a-half-foot-tall rat retreated instantly from the towering primate, pulling a silver whistle from a pocket and blowing hard. The shrill blast echoed down the street.

Additional soldiers materialized from nowhere, until the travelers were no longer merely surrounded but hemmed in.

“Hey, take it easy!” Like his companions, Buncan was taken aback by the unexpected and overwhelming display of force. Notions of reaching not for his sword but his duar were hindered by the proximity of so many weapons and the edgy attitude of those wielding them. “We’ll come with you.”

“A wise decision.” The rat looked satisfied.

The white-clad troops formed an impenetrable mass both in front of and behind the sullen travelers as they were convoyed down the street. “You still haven’t told us what we’re supposed to have done,” Buncan pressed the rat in command.

“Done?” The commander looked back at him. “You offend by your very presence. Your existence degrades, indeed mocks, all decent community standards.”

“Ere now, guv,” said Squill, “are you implyin’ that me and me mates are duty?”

“No,” replied the rat. “I’m saying that your condition is filthy, execrable, squalid, and unclean. Your odor is rank and your feet defile the ground wherever they make contact. As for your breath, it is of a loathsomeness so lavish that I do not possess terms of sufficient severity with which to describe it.”

Neena leaned close to her brother. ‘ I think ‘e’s sayin’ that we don’t quite measure up to the local median, cleanliness-wise.”

“You will have an opportunity to purify yourselves as much as possible prior to your appearance before the Magistrate,” the rat was telling them as they turned a corner. The street opened onto a landscaped square paved in white limestone. Citizens gathered around the milky marble fountain in the center stared openmouthed as the parade passed.

On the far side of the square they were marched into a large building and made to wait in a spacious chamber while the commandant rat conversed with a colleague behind a desk. Asked to hand over their weapons and personal effects, there was little they could do but comply. To Buncan’s chagrin, he was also compelled to turn in his duar. That done, most of their escort departed. The remainder escorted and shoved them, none too gently, down a short corridor and into a large barred vestibule. Even the odd diagonal bars had been painted white.

Jail it might be, but the cell was as spotless as the antechamber outside.

Squill grabbed the bars and yelled after the departing rat and his companion, the chief jailer (a shrew of unpleasant disposition and appearance).

“You’d better not try to keep us ‘ere any longer than we’re willin’ to go along with this! We’re powerful sorcerers, we are.”

The rats looked back and grinned thinly. “Of course you are. But tell me: If you’re such masters of the arcane arts, why not use your magic to properly cleanse yourselves?”

“We are clean, dammit!” Gripping the bars, Squill hopped up and down in frustration.

“Not by civilized standards.” The officers turned a corner and vacated the corridor outside the cells.

Neena took a seat on one of the two benches that hung suspended from a wall . . . no doubt to make it easier to clean under, Buncan mused.

“Well, we didn’t ‘ave no trouble findin’ a place to spend the night.”

Buncan tried to put the best possible light on their situation. “This isn’t so bad. Inconvenient, but hardly dangerous. We’ll answer their questions and pay their fine, as Gragelouth surmises, and then we’ll get the hell out of Hygria as fast as we can replenish our supplies.”

“My wagon and team,” the merchant mumbled. Buncan eyed him unsympathetically.

“You’re the one who said to cooperate.”

The sloth regarded him with atypical sharpness. “You saw how many there were. We would have not stood a chance in a close-quarter battle. The intelligent fighter picks the time that best suits him.”

“Righty-ho.” Squill spread his arms wide. “Why, we’re in a much better position to get out o’ this compost ‘cap now than we were afore.”

“At least we’re not dead,” Gragelouth shot back, showing uncharacteristic pugnacity. “I have watched. You need time to compose your spellsongs. We possessed no such margin for chronological error when we were surrounded.”

“We could magic ourselves out o’ ‘ere,” Neena murmured, “except . . .”

“No duar,” Buncan finished for her. “We may have to try and clean ourselves up to meet their standards.”

“You weren’t payin’ attention, mate.” Squill ran a paw down the diagonal bars. “That’ll just get us an audience with the local judge, not out o’ ‘ere. An’ wot ‘appens if no matter wot we do we can’t never get up to their bleedin’ high ‘standards’?” He showed bright teeth. “I don’t like bein’ pushed around.”

“They may only want our money,” Gragelouth observed.

“Maybe, maybe,” Squill murmured softly. “Or they might want everythin’ of ours, which they’ll confiscate while we rot away in this bleedin’ cell.”

“They won’t let us rot,” said his sister. “Wouldn’t be a clean thing to do.”

“Maybe, but I don’t think I want to ‘ang around to find out.” Gragelouth rose from where he’d been sitting and gazed up the corridor. “Someone is coming.”

It was the rat, flanked by a pair of strangely garbed woodchucks. Their attire was richly embroidered with a plethora of appliqu6d arcane symbols.

They halted outside the cell. The nearest woodchuck adjusted bifocal glasses. “What have we here?”

“They claim to be sorcerers.” The rat’s lips curled in an elegant sneer.

“Look more like vagrants to me,” commented the second, slightly taller woodchuck.

His associate nodded. “I am Multhumot, Senior Master of the Hidden Arts for Hygria. I do not believe, but I am willing to be convinced. If you are sorcerers, show me a sample of your skills.”

“You mean you’re gonna let us?” said Squill. “Right!”

“An effective demonstration will require more than enthusiasm.” The woodchuck’s tone was dry.

“We are sorry if we have unwillingly given any offense.” Gragelouth advanced from the back of the cell to the bars. “If you will but return to us our possessions, we will depart immediately.”

“It is too late for that.” The commandant was smiling. “You have committed grave offenses and must pay the penalty.” Gragelouth nodded his shaggy head, muttering. “It is as I suspected.”

“Oi, you were right, merchant.” Neena was staring at the rat. “That’s wot they were after all along. Tell me, bald-tail, is your conscience as clean as your butt?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” By his tone the commandant indicated that he knew exactly what she meant.

“Right.” Squill looked eager. “They want proof, let’s give ‘em some proof.”

“Maybe it would be better simply to pay the fine,” Gragelouth ventured uneasily.

“Stuff it, sloth,” said Squill. “This ‘ere’s personal now.”

“I need my instrument back.” Duncan did his best to affect an air of indifference.

“The Master wants to see magic, not music.” The rat snorted disdainfully.

Multhumot waved a hand. “Bring what he requests, but first check the interior for weapons and devices.” He eyed Duncan appraisingly. “This had best not be a joke, human. Do not think to toy with me.”

Buncan kept his expression carefully neutral.

A squirrel appeared with the duar. The cell door was opened and it was passed inside. Buncan cradled it lovingly, checking it thoroughly for damage. It appeared unharmed. Only when he was satisfied did he turn to the otters, who waited expectantly.

“Something simple,” he told them. “Just enough for a demonstration.”

4 ‘Ell, I wanted to flatten the ‘ole bleedin’ city.” Squill was unashamedly disappointed.

“ ‘Ow about we dissolve these bars?” Neena smiled sweetly at the rat. “Would that be adequate proof?” The commandant stiffened slightly. For the first time he looked less than completely confident. By contrast, the two wood-chucks evinced hardly any reaction.

“That would be interesting,” Multhumot’s associate admitted.

Buncan bowed slightly and commenced to follow the otters’ vocal lead.

“Got no freedom in this place

Time to get out an’ get on with the race

This place ‘ere stinks, this space ‘ere winks

Let’s waste this fokker and get back to our Stinks.

Us an’ our friends, that’s wot we thinks.”

The mist that materialized this time was dark and threatening. It coalesced into a compact cumulonimbus cloud which began first to rumble, then to flash ominously. Intrigued, the woodchucks held their ground while the commandant took a couple of steps toward the corridor exit.

Miniature lightning began to run up and down the restraining bars, curling around the metal while seeking the places where the bars were fixed to wall and floor. The strobing light cast the faces of spellsingers and player into barbaric relief. Beyond the corridor, guards and administrators garnered fearfully to listen.

Unperturbed, Multhumot raised both short arms and mumbled laconically. His colleague removed a flask from within his copious robes and began to sprinkle its contents on the bars. The fluid smelled powerfully of lemon and ammonia.

Buncan’s nose twitched as the odor struck him, and he knew that the otters, with their more sensitive nostrils, could hardly be missing it.

A second cloud appeared in the corridor. It was an intense, brilliant white, sanctified and fluffy and shot through with silver. Under Multhumot’s direction it drifted purposefully toward the cell. Trying to ignore it, Buncan kept playing while the suddenly wary otters rapped on.

The ivory cloud made contact with the one which had spread itself along the bars. Ragged lightning erupted at the confluence, and the air was acrid with the smell of ozone. The dark nimbus Buncan and his friends had conjured began to break apart into tiny, harmless puffs.

There was a bright, actinic flash which caused everyone to blink. The smell of lemon-fresh and otherworldly room deodorizer was strong in the air. Though they sang and played on as determinedly as ever, Buncan and his companions were unable to regenerate the dark cloud.

“So much for your squalid sorcery.” Multhumot’s associate looked pleased. “We of Hygria can scrub it out of existence, wash it from this dimension, render it impotent through disinfective invocation. From now on this chamber will remain whiter than white and squeaky clean in spite of all your efforts to foul it through your outlander spellsinging.” Behind him the commandant, his confidence restored, beamed triumphantly.

“ ‘Ere, don’t let ‘em get away with that!” blurted Squill furiously. “Let’s ‘ave another go, mate.”

“I don’t know, Squill.” Buncan let his tired fingers fall from the strings, “I don’t feel too good right now. Maybe we’d better give it some thought.”

“Don’t back down on us now, Bunkile,” Neena implored him.

He forced himself to straighten. “All right. One more time.”

“Let’s really give it to the dirty buggers.” Squill bent to exchange ideas with his sister. When they had agreed on lyrics, they began to sing.

The vapor that boiled out of the duar this time was a throbbing, angry red that screeched and gibbered. The knife-edged lyrics of the otters were matched by the crimson blades that emerged from the coalescing fog. Seeking eagerly, they hissed up and down, looking for something to slice, as the cloud drifted inexorably toward the cell bars.

CHAPTER 9

The commandant’s expression fell and he retreated to the far end of the corridor, cowering near the portal. Though initially taken aback, the two woodchucks held their ground. As the threatening cloud drifted toward them, they lifted their arms and began to chant in tandem. Grasping arms emerged from the nimbus, reaching outward.

In response to the chant a second white cloud materialized. It was far more active than its predecessor had been, spinning and whirling until it had twisted itself into optimal dust-devil proportions. Buncan gaped as it spun toward the bars.

This time when the two clouds made contact there was no lurid flash of light, no crooked lightning. Only a deep, liquid gurgle. Buncan continued to play, the otters kept singing, and the pair of white-shrouded woodchucks waved their hands and chanted like crazy.

Gragelouth sat at the back of the cell, his gray-furred head resting in his hands, a sour expression on his face.

The cell bars began to vibrate. Soon the walls of the jail joined in sympathetic vibration. Wondering if maybe they hadn’t overdone it, Buncan played on. Mortar powdered and flaked off the walls, filling the air with limestone dust.

Angry as the otters’ rap was, then combined spellsinging was no match for the cyclonic cleanser the woodchucks had invoked. It tore the red cloud to bits, shredding malformed blades and arms, sweeping them into its central vortex. When the last vestige of crimson had been sucked invisible, the whirlwind shrank in upon itself, growing smaller and smaller until, with a fault puff of compressing air, it popped itself out of existence.

Their throats protesting mightily, the otters were forced to give it up. Buncan finished with a final desultory strum on the duar. The glow at its nexus faded. It was quiet in the cell once more.

And clean. Exceedingly clean.

“You see,” said Multhumot, “all the anger and fury in the Netherworld cannot stand against good hygiene, even in sorcery.” Perspiration stains were visible beneath his arms.

“We haven’t done anything,” Buncan argued. “It’s wrong to keep us locked up like this.”

Multhumot straightened his attire. “Either Kimmilpat or I will be on guard in the antechamber at all times. I warn you not to try anything.” He adopted a threatening mien . . . as threatening as a three-foot-high woodchuck could manage, anyway. “Thus far my colleague and I have only countered your necromancy. We have not assaulted you with our own. Rest assured you would not find our serious attentions pleasing. Therefore, I recommend that from now on you behave yourselves.”

“You don’t scare us, guv.” Squill had his face pressed between the bars. He looked back over bis shoulder. “C’mon, Buncan; let’s give ‘em another—”

“No.” Buncan put a comforting hand on the otter’s shoulder. “No more. Not now. It didn’t work, and I’m not ready to try again. Not just yet. If Clothahump were here . . . I saw bun use that kind of enchanted wind myself, only it wasn’t white.” He looked down the row of cells.

“Maybe there’s a better way out of here.” Another body was standing next to him: Gragelouth.

“What will happen to us?” the merchant asked mournfully of their captors.

“That is the concern of the city magistrate,” Multhumot replied. “I suspect you will be fined. To what degree I cannot say. Certainly you will be ordered to dispose of your filthy raiment prior to your court appearance.”

“I’m getting real tired of being called filthy,” Buncan muttered.

“I ain’t goin’ nowhere without me shorts,” Squill added.

“Wouldn’t ‘ave bothered Mudge,” his sister commented. “E spent plenty o’ time gaddin’ about without ‘is pants.”

The two plump white-shrouded wizards took their leave of the prisoners. The commandant smirked briefly at his charges before following in the woodchucks’ wake.

The evening meal did nothing to lighten the spirits of the incarcerated. It was as sterile and bland as their surroundings.

Squill took a couple of mouthfuls before shoving his bowl aside. “I can’t swallow any more o’ this swill.”

Neena had already reached the same conclusion. “Who could?” Her nose and whiskers twitched.

“It is quite nutritious. I have had worse.” Gragelouth seemed to be ingesting the contents of his bowl with no difficulty. The otters watched him in disbelief.

“I guess my stomach’s not as strong as yours, merchant.” Buncan set his own portion aside as he considered the empty corridor. “Another day of this and we’ll be too weak to think of escaping.”

“You notice no one said ‘ow long we might be stuck in ‘ere before we get to see this ‘ere bloody magistrate?” Neena pointed out. “It could take weeks.”

Squill sat on the floor, leaning against the back wall. “I don’t give a shit ‘ow bad they torture me: I ain’t givin’ up me pants.”

“There’s only one wizard on duty,” Buncan murmured. “Maybe if we came up with a different song fast enough . . .”

“I have a feeling his colleague is not far away.”

Buncan turned to regard Gragelouth. The sloth spoke patiently. “You have shown your spellsinging ability convincingly if not overpoweringly. Our overweight opponents may be prepared to call in additional sorceral assistance if they think it necessary. I think we must seek another way to abet our departure.”

Duncan tried to avoid the odor rising from his food bowl. “Jon-Tom would know what to sing to get out of this place.”

“E would that,” agreed Squill readily, “or else ‘e’d level the ‘ole place tryin’.”

“They’re bleedin’ fanatics,” Neena added. “To them, anythin’ that’s different is dirty, so they can’t abide us.”

“What kind of spell song can you use to combat rabid cleanliness?” Buncan was thoroughly discouraged.

Squill scratched behind an ear, then a knee, concluding with his butt. He paused in midscratch to sit up straight.

“Maybe there’s another way, like Gragelouth said.”

“Besides spellsingin’?” His sister eyed him sideways. “You always was a balmy bro’; now you’ve gone over the edge.”

“Not by ‘alf, me darlin’ sib’. Not by ‘alf.” Squill was on his feet now, excitement evident in his expression and gestures. “Look ‘ere: These blokes ‘ate anythin’ that ‘hits o’ dirt or filth or a general mess, right?”

A quick survey told Buncan that he found this no more enlightening than did any of his companions. Gragelouth in particular looked especially uncomprehending.

“Your line of reasoning escapes me,” the merchant confessed.

“Don’t you see? Me sister an’ I are experts at makin’ a mess!”

Realization dawned on Neena’s face. Her whiskers rose with her smile. “Oi, that’s right! Otters come by that natural.”

“An’ we learned from the best,” Squill added, referring to his much maligned but conveniently absent father.

“I see now where you are leading with this.” Gragelouth scratched himself under his chin with a heavy claw. “There are risks involved. Such a response may only infuriate our captors.”

“Bugger ‘em!” snapped Squill. “They’re already mad at us. Not to mention bein’ mad up ‘ere.” He tapped the side of his head, just below one ear. “Wot can they do that they ‘aven’t already done?”

“Kill us,” Gragelouth pointed out quietly.

“Oi, there is that,” the otter admitted. “But only if they’re able, which I don’t ‘appen to think they are.”

“You presume much.” The sloth returned to the rear of the cell and folded his arms. “Perhaps you will be good enough to leave me out of this equation.”

“Don’t worry, guv,” said Neena, completely missing his implication. “Why, you’re ‘airway clean. Anyone could see right off that you don’t ‘ave wot it takes to act like a bona fide slob.”

“Thank you,” said Gragelouth dryly.

“An’ you, Bunkly, you’ll just be in the way,” she went on. “Go on, off with you. Stand over in the corner with our guide an’ let me bro’ an’ me get on with our work. If we need your ‘elp, we’ll ask for it.”

“Surely there’s something I can do.” Though Gragelouth was still reluctant to participate, Buncan found himself caught up in the spirit of the enterprise.

Squill was rubbing his hands together as he surveyed the cell. “This ain’t goin’ to be ‘alf work.” His eyes fell on the food bowls. “I think I’m about ready for a stomach-chumin’ little snack, I am.”

Hearing the racket, one of the guards stationed out in the antechamber arrived to check on the disturbance. The sight and sounds that greeted him caused his eyes to widen.

“Stop that! Stop it immediately!” He gestured with his spear as he ran toward the cell.

Weaving unsteadily, Squill staggered over to the bars and proceeded to pee on the paca’s immaculate white boots. From the look that came over the guard’s face one would have thought he’d been run through, Buncan thought. The paca let out a shriek, dropped his weapon, and ran wildly for the exit. Despite the condition of his stomach, Squill still managed a smile for his companions.

The otters gleefully pursued their methodical degradation of the cell, while Gragelouth and Buncan kept to one marginally unblemished comer. It was at once fascinating and unsettling to watch.

Flanked by a pair of sword-carrying squirrels and the sleepy-eyed commandant, it was Kimmilpat who came waddling down the corridor to confront mem. “What is this? What’s going on here?” he sputtered as he neared the cell. “All this commotion! It will not go easy on you for having roused me from my sleep when I have only just—”

He halted, openmouthed, as he took in the scene. So did his escort.

Squill and Neena had removed their clothes and scattered mem all over the cell. Likewise Buncan and the reluctant Gragelouth, both of whom leaned buck naked against the back wall. It looked as if a laundry cart had blown up.

The cell’s single chamber pot had been overturned and its odious contents tossed out into the corridor, save for what had stuck to the now-stained white bars. Fragments of broken dinner bowls lay everywhere, mixed in with the demolished stuffing of the several sleeping pads. Perhaps half the evening’s meal lay strewn about. Some of it dripped down the wall opposite the cell, bits of meat and vegetables sliding glaucously down the pristine white surface.

The woodchuck’s insides trembled but held steady. “I know what you’re trying to do, and it won’t work.” As he spoke the two guards, their hands clasped to then- mouths, turned and fled. To his credit the commandant remained behind, though he was looking exceedingly queasy.

“What won’t work, guv?” Tongue lolling, Squill pressed up against the bars and let the drool from his mouth drip down the bars onto the floor outside. The commandant recoiled.

“Some poor citizens are going to have to clean this up,” the wizard protested, “after they have been suitably fortified for the task, of course. I warn you to cease this outrage immediately!”

“Wot outrage?” Moving to stand next to her brother, Neena conspicuously picked her nose and flicked the contents out between the bars.

“Agghhhh! You were warned!” Kimmilpat raised both arms and began to chant Squill turned to his sister. “Not a bad voice, though a bit ‘igh-pitched for me taste.” Sticking his head as far between the bars as he could manage, he shoved a furry finger down his throat and commenced to upchuck with astonishing force all over the wizard’s impeccable, intricately embroidered gown.

Stunned, Kimmilpat stopped in mid-incantation to look down at himself. At the same time his nostrils conveyed to him the full aroma of the blessing Squill had bestowed upon his august person. Innocent, as it were, of any natural resistance to such effluvia, the dazed wizard promptly whirled and barfed all over the nether regions of the commandant, making an admirably thorough job of it and missing nary a square inch of the glossy white cloth.

By this time utter confusion reigned in the anteroom beyond the cell block as baffled and frightened guards struggled to make sense of what was happening beyond their immediate range of vision. But not, distressingly for them, beyond their range of hearing.

“This . . . mis is revolting beyond imagination!” The puce-faced commandant gasped weakly as he struggled to help me overcome wizard back to his feet.

“Why thanks, guv.” Spittle dribbled profusely from Squill’s lower jaw. “We ‘ave a good example to inspire us, we do. ‘Ere, let me ‘elp clean that up.” Taking a huge mouthful of water from the still-intact cell jug, he sprayed every drop of it smack into the face of the unsuspecting Kimmilpat as the stunned wizard stumbled around to face him.

As the overwhelmed woodchuck collapsed for the second time in as many minutes, Squill considered the nearly empty jug. “ ‘Ard to make great art when you don’t ‘ave sufficient materials to work with. Oi,” he shouted to the commandant, “we need another meal in ‘ere! We nearly went an’ digested that last one, we did.”

A cluster of guards tentatively examined the corridor, intent on aiding their commanding officer. The sight and smell turned the ones in front and set them to struggling frantically with those following immediately behind.

Pinching his nostrils with two fingers, Buncan spoke nasally to Gragelouth. “See? Squill was right. Where cleanliness is concerned these people are so used to perfection that they can’t handle real filth when confronted with it. They can’t cope.”

“They can still kill us.” The sloth was doing his best to shroud his own much more sensitive proboscis.

“Only at the risk of making another mess.”

“Maybe they haveanother mess.”

“Maybe they have we cannot imagine.”

“When things are tough your optimism’s a real comfort, Gragelouth.”

“I am a realist,” the merchant protested. “And I have reason to be.” He pointed.

Forcing his way through the knot of panicked guards was the senior Hygrian wizard, Multhumot, resplendent in a gold-embroidered white gown of office. Indignation colored his broad, furry face and his whiskers were convulsing as he pushed the commandant aside to assist his colleague.

“What is this . . . this corruption?”

“They think to provoke us into letting them go.” The badly unsettled Kimmilpat was wheezing weakly.

Multhumot glared at the prisoners as he steadied his associate. “That is not going to happen. Not while I have convicted power left in my body.” Covering his broad nose as best he was able, he advanced purposefully on the reeking cell, his other hand upraised. Miniature lightning crackled between his spread fingers as he commenced a deep-throated invocation of profound import.

He was barely halfway through the first sentence when Squill, taking unabashed aim and demonstrating extraordinary accuracy even for one so obviously skilled in such matters, proceeded to anoint the wizard with the remaining contents of the water jug via the conduit of his own body. Initially struck square in the face (hard as he strained, Squill couldn’t maintain the flow for very long), the wizard stopped dead in his tracks, blinked, realized fully the extent of the ultimate unhygienic act which had been performed upon him, and fainted clean away.

Not the similarly debased Kimmilpat, nor the commandant, nor any of the ordinary guards had the courage to advance to the woodchuck wizard’s rescue. Meanwhile the otters, employing the relentless energy and enthusiasm of their kind, did their best to exacerbate the despoiled condition of bom their cell and the adjoining corridor. Throwing himself into the spirit of the moment, Buncan participated as best he could. Gragelouth simply could not bring himself to do more than occasionally expectorate on the cell floor. Most of the time he simply kept his face averted from the fray and let out an occasional moan.

Eventually a trio of guards crept down the corridor. Improvised masks covered their mouths and nostrils. They hustled the still-heaving Kimmilpat out of the hallway before returning to drag the comatose mass of his colleague to safety. Pandemonium reigned in the antechamber, clearly audible to those within the cell.

Exhausted but exhilarated, the otters finally took a break from their noxious exertions.

“That ought to give the buggers somethin’ to think about,” Squill declared with satisfaction. “Wonder ‘ow they’re goin’ to react to our little party.”

Buncan was pinching his nose tightly, trying not to inhale any more than was absolutely necessary as he peered up the corridor.

“Whatever they do, I hope they do it soon. It’s hot in here and I’m having a tough time maintaining my own equilibrium.”

“ ‘Ere now, Bunkins,” said Neena worriedly, “don’t you up an’ pass out on us.”

“I have to confess,” came the voice of the distressed merchant from the back of their cell, “that I cannot imagine you spellsinging up anything worse than this.” He waved feebly to take in the ravaged cell and hallway.

“Crikey, guv, go easy on the compliments.” Squill grinned modestly. “We just improvised as best we could.”

“They’re coming back.” Buncan nodded toward the far end of the corridor.

The commandant was alone, stumbling and hesitating as if he was being urged on (not to say pushed) from behind. The rat’s demeanor was as thoroughly disheveled as his previously spotless uniform. Behind the handkerchief he kept tightly pressed to his muzzle, his narrow, pointy face was decidedly green. This was unsurprising given the fact that the city’s moist heat had invaded the cell block, the atmosphere of which had already graduated from ripe to rank.

Swaying slightly, he stumbled halfway down the corridor, at which point he could advance no farther. “I am,” he emitted a curdled gurgle, fought not to swallow, finally gathered himself, and began afresh, “I am pleased to inform you that a decision has been rendered in your case.”

Neena winked at Buncan.

“Is that right?” Squill responded innocently.

“Yes. Through the infinite magnanimity of the Justice Court of Hygria and by special dispensation from the Council of Cleanliness, it has been decided that you will be allowed to recover your worldly possessions and depart unhindered without having to face the formal prosecution you so richly deserve.”

Neena leaned against the diagonal bars. “Cor, wot a generous lot o’ folks. I almost ‘ate to leave. Wot do you think, Bunklewit? Maybe we ought to ‘ang around a while longer?”

“No, no.” The commandant spoke hastily, before Buncan could comment. “The streets have been cleared for you. This entire borough of the city has been sealed against your presence. Just take your belongings and leave.”

Buncan’s gaze narrowed as he regarded the trembling rat “I dunno. I think we’re owed something for our trouble, for being accused of something we weren’t aware of and for being shut up here while—” He broke off. Gragelouth was shaking him persistently.

“If you do not mind, I would rather not strain our current luck,” the merchant hissed. “We should get out while we can.”

Buncan smiled and whispered. “I know. I just like to push the envelope.”

“A peculiar expression.”

“One of my dad’s.”

Gragelouth stepped past him, waving at the bilious commandant. “Very well. We accept your offer. Now open up! We’re ready to leave.” He turned to the otters. “While I personally would have opted for a less unconventional means of resistance, I have to admit that the outcome has been congenial. Please try not to puke on anyone as we make our way to freedom.”

“Relax, guv. I don’t think I ‘ave it in me anymore anyways,” Squill informed him. “So to speak.”

Advancing with the pointed toes of a ballet dancer—or a lone scout traversing a mine field—the commandant worked his way down to their cell and fumbled at the lock with a large, ornate key. With more of a metallic clank than a click, the door swung aside. Weaving unsteadily, the rat watched them exit. Buncan almost felt sorry for him.

Squill paused, breathing directly into the rat’s face. “Wot about the guards outside?”

“The antech—” the commandant staggered under the impact of the otter’s breath, “the antechamber has been cleared. All doors are open and unbarred to you. Also all windows and every other ventable opening in the building. Now please, go!” He clung to the cell door for support.

Proving that the rat’s declaration was as genuine as his nausea, they found the outer chambers deserted. So was the main boulevard outside, and the square with its intricate fountain. As they hurried along the white paving stones, Buncan sensed eyes following them furtively from cracks in shutters and barely opened windows.

“Would you look at this,” Squill ventured as they jogged along. “They’re bloody terrified of us. I think we could ‘ave the run o’ the city if we wanted it.”

“Our actions must seem not merely outlandish but incomprehensible to them.” Gragelouth puffed along in the lead. “We are not free yet. Keep a watch for cocked bows or poised spears.”

“Naw, they wouldn’t try anythin’ now, guv,” Squill replied confidently. “Be afraid we might spit on “em.”

They passed the inn whose hospitality they wouldn’t have the opportunity to sample, taking note as they ran past of the barred doors and shuttered windows, and turned up the street leading to the tethering spot where they’d left Gragelouth’s wagon. The vegetable seller had deserted her stall, as had all her fellow vendors. After the clamor and noise which had greeted the travelers upon arrival, they now found the avenues eerily silent.

Squill and Neena’s exertions had made quite an impression on the local authorities.

CHAPTER 10

They took their leave of sterile, whttewashed Hygria without regret. No pursuit was mounted once they were beyond the city walls, not by vengeful guards nor nauseous sorcerers. It was clear that none of them had, so .to speak, the stomach for it.

Well south of the metropolis, they stopped in a shady glade of nut trees to bathe in a clear, cool stream. Duncan relaxed in the shallows while brother and sister otter frolicked in deeper waters. Gragelouth used a cloth to daintily scrub and wash his fur, then set to combing himself out with a square brush as big as his hand.

When the otters had finally had enough of the water, they dried themselves and dressed, then helped themselves to a bushel or so of the ripe nuts; this in lieu of the supplies the town itself had been so unwilling to furnish. When they had enough, Gragelouth once again set a course northwestward.

A week passed before the grassy, scrub-flecked plains gave way to the foothills of a rugged range of unknown mountains. There were no trails leading within, and they had to pick their way carefully around boulders and over rough spots. The dray lizards hissed and jerked violently, but the merchant kept them under admirable control with well-chosen tugs on the reins and sharply barked phrases of command.

“Easier for a mercenary fox on foot than for a vehicle to get through this way,” Buncan commented as they bounced and rattled through the notch Gragelouth had chosen to explore.

“I do not know for certain that he came this way,” the merchant replied unencouragingly. “Only that this seems to me the only possible avenue through these mountains.”

Buncan pursed his lips thoughtfully. “It’s your wagon, Gragelouth. So we go your way. What’s this range called, anyway?”

“I have no idea.” The sloth wrestled with the reins.

“Interestin’ name,” Neena quipped, but her heart wasn’t in it. The path was too rough to inspire ready humor.

As the travelers progressed, the crags overhead clawed more determinedly at the underbellies of the scudding clouds. Their flanks steepened. Unless they chanced upon a formal road or track of some kind, Buncan couldn’t see how they were going to wrestle the clumsy wagon through the increasingly rough terrain.

In all mis time they encountered no other travelers. If any commerce passed through these mountains, it was by a route different from the one they were traversing. Gragelouth surmised that any such travel probably passed to the east and north. In their case they sought not commerce anyway, but revelation, and the path to that is always more difficult.

Days later the hitherto peaceful atmosphere was interrupted by a steady sussuration. Initially a loud whisper, it intensified with their advance until it had become a roaring in the ears, like a steady gale. It carried with it a becoming freshness to the air which invigorated tired spirits. Even the dray lizards picked up their pace.

The otters recognized it from the first. “Nothin’ mysterious or sorceral about that noise, friends.” Neena stood behind Buncan, her paws on his shoulders, trying to see into the distance. “ ‘Tis a river, and a big, fast-flowin’ one.”

“Not as big as the Tailaroam,” Squill ventured, “nor maybe even the Shortstub, but steeper o’ drop than either. White water!” Clearly the otter relished the prospect.

The narrowing pass they had been following ended at the river, which funneled swiftly but not impassably to the west through a steep gorge. Gragelouth inspected the terrain with a practiced eye.

“It cuts through these mountains more or less in the direction we must take.” He pointed downstream. “See, there is a contiguous beach. If it is sufficiently compacted, we can parallel.” He chucked the reins, urging his team onward.

As they swung out onto the sand, Buncan uneasily eyed the torrent on their right. “What happens if it rains upstream and the river rises? We’ll be trapped in this canyon.”

“Better work on your stroke, mate,” Squill said cheerily. Buncan was not amused.

The wagon rattled and rocked but did not sink into the firm mixture of sand and gravel. Gragelouth kept a steady eye on the surface ahead, watching for any soft spots. As the canyon closed in around them, Buncan found himself glancing worriedly back the way they’d come. If the river came up the wagon would float . . . until it struck the first submerged boulder.

They hadn’t traveled far before the beach spread out to form a shallow plain complete with trees and grass. Just ahead a tributary, slow-moving but too deep and wide to cross, entered the main current from their side. There was no way around it. The beach down which they were traveling, which had looked so promising at first, was a dead end.

Someone, or something, had found the little valley at the junction of the rivers conducive to permanent habitation. Neena pointed out the house and bam, both of which had been fashioned out of river rock and driftwood. The home had a single sharply raked roof facing the main stream.

Behind the bam a corral had been staked out. Its reptilian occupants looked healthy and well-fed. Buncan identified them as a species bred for consumption rather than work. There was also an extensive garden and small orchard, irrigated with water from the tributary by means of two small canals.

Gragelouth indicated the network of stakes in the shallows. “Shellfish farming. Whoever has taken residence here has done well. This is not the abode of traders or transients.”

“Not just shellfish.” Neena pointed to the double rack of skinned and filleted fish drying in the sun behind the house.

As they drew nearer, several cubs came tumbling out to greet them. They were followed by two adults. No one exhibited any fear or apprehension at the wagon’s approach, which suggested that visitors to this place, while probably infrequent, were not unknown.

Buncan had never seen their like before, but Gragelouth recognized them readily enough.

“They are of a tribe called platypi,” he informed his companions, “who are noted for their love of privacy.”

“Bloody weird-looking, they are.” Squill stared at the youngsters, with their grinning, duck-billed faces and slick fur peeping out from beneath their clothing.

“You should have much in common with them. They are as at home in the water as yourselves, though not, I mink, quite as quick.”

The otter hopped down off the wagon. “If they’ll sell or trade us some fresh fish and maybe a cray or two, I’ll concede ‘em any race.”

“They look friendly enough.” Buncan climbed down to join his friends. “Think it’s a ploy?”

“No,” replied the normally suspicious sloth. “There would not be enough traffic through here to make banditry a paying proposition.”

Cubs and adults alike jabbered incessantly at the travelers as they escorted mem toward the house. As Gragelouth surmised, they didn’t get many visitors and were delighted at the prospect of company. Their remarkable bills made mem difficult but not impossible to understand.

“Tho you go to the northwetht?” The male of the household addressed them as they all sat on the beach, resting on boulders which had been carved into chairs. His spouse kept the chattering cubs away from the meeting.

The platy put his thumbs through suspenders, nodding downstream. “Your vehicle will never make it through theth mountains. Even if we could raft it across, the beach endth not far downstream.”

“We are open to suggestions,” Gragelouth told him.

Their host considered. “I have plenty of wood and am experienthed with my handth. Perhapth we can come to an agreement. I could uth a good wagon and team.”

“Oh, no,” said the sloth. “That wagon is my livelihood. It contains all my goods, all my worldly possessions.”

“I wouldn’t take your goodth. You could take them onward with you. I jutht want the wagon and team. Those for a good, thound boat. A fair trade.”

“Seems fair to me, it does,” said Squill without hesitation. “Let’s do it,” his sister added eagerly. “Be grand to travel in a boat for a change. I’m sick of dust and dirt.”

Buncan eyed the platy evenly. “Have you actually been downstream? Is it navigable?”

The sloth regarded him approvingly. “Ah. You are learning. I see that being in my company has done you good.” “I’ve traveled a ways,” their host told him. “I have no need to go far.” He gestured at the homestead, with its shellfish farm and orchard and garden and animals. “My world ith here. The dethithion ith up to you. I can only tell you with athuranth that you cannot continue to follow the Sprilashoone by land. A boat ith your only real opthion. Unleth you want to go back the way you came and try another route.”

“I worry about chancing a heavy load of trade goods on an unknown watercourse,” Gragelouth muttered.

“I will thtore them for you,” said the platy. “No extra charge. I am a farmer, not a trader. You can return for them whenever you with.” “Rapids?” asked Buncan.

“Not for at leatht two dayth. Farther than that I have not been. And at that point it turnth more to the northwetht, ath you would want. Bethideth, two among you are otterth. Even in the wortht waters they can manage.” “BloomuV right,” Squill agreed expansively. “If you have trouble with the boat, you have among you two who can go over the thide to fix or recover thingth.” “You’ve ‘andled the land portion of our little sojourn,” Neena reassured Gragelouth. “Leave it to me bro’ and me to look after things while we’re waterborne.”

“We might follow the river on foot,” the merchant murmured, reluctant to the last, “but the terrain is difficult and becoming more so, and I confess that the prospect of an extended hike does not thrill me with anticipation.” “Then ith mettled.” The platy extended a hand. Buncan had to admit the thought of traveling by water instead of land was an inviting one. His battered backside and jostled spine certainly approved.

The platy family proved to be excellent hosts, and the travelers spent the most relaxing evening and night in days luxuriating in their hospitality. In exchange for some selections from Gragelouth’s stock, the fanner additionally provided them with substantial supplies of dried fish, fruits, crayfish, and freshwater oysters, as well as vegetables from the garden. Even Gragelouth had to admit that the riparian hermits had been more than fair in then’ dealings. As a result, they did not miss the supplies they bad been unable to obtain in Hygria.

The boat was sturdy and larger than expected. There were four sets of oars, which since they were traveling with the current no one expected to have to use save perhaps to fend the craft off the canyon walls should they grow unexpectedly narrow.

The single lateen-rigged mast was stepped solidly into the keep fore of the cabin. Its sail remained furled as they pushed away from the rustic rough-hewn dock and rode the tranquil waters of the tributary into the fast-moving current of the Sprilashoone.

They watched the farm recede behind them until a bend in the river blocked it from their view. The six youngsters ran along the beach, clicking then- bills by way of farewell, until they too disappeared from sight.

Buncan found himself wondering if he would ever see the little valley again. Certainly Gragelouth might, in search of what trade goods remained behind.

“This is more like it.” He made the comment to no one in particular as he leaned against the bow and watched the canyon slide by. The layered sandstone and granite glistened in the morning sun. Wild lizards and other native inhabitants scrambled in and out of clefts in the rock, pausing occasionally to peer from uncomprehending eyes at the boat drifting past below. Others sped out of the craft’s path, then- subaqueous activities temporarily disrupted.

“A definite improvement.” Having jumped over the side to cool himself, Squill had climbed back aboard over the low stem and now lay on his back on the front deck, soaking up the sun. Gragelouth handled the tiller while Neena hung over the side, trailing a paw in the water.

“To be back on a river.” She let out a low, whistling sigh. “ ‘Tis more than I could’ve ‘oped for.”

“I am glad you are pleased.”

She turned to look at the merchant. “Don’t you ever lighten up, guv? You should try an’ be more like me bro’ an’ I.”

“No one can be ‘like’ an otter except another otter,” Gragelouth declaimed firmly. “Your kind possesses the most extraordinary facility for delighting even in unpleasant circumstances.”

“Maybe so, pinch-face, but even you ‘ave to admit that our present circumstances are ‘ardly anythin’ but unpleasant.”

“I must confess that I am increasingly sanguine about our current situation.”

“Crikes, don’t overdo your glee. You might strain somethin’.”

“I miss the old wagon,” Gragelouth continued, “but one must be prepared to make sacrifices in pursuit of great goals.” He nudged the tiller slightly to port. “I admit that this method of transportation is both cooler and easier on certain select portions of one’s anatomy.”

“Bloody well right.” She swiped at a surface-swimming fish and missed. “So chill, and try to enjoy yourself.”

It required a conscious effort on his part, but by their fourth day on the river the ease of travel and promise of more of the same had even the perpetually dour merchant smiling. The current had increased and the walls of the canyon grown sheer, but they passed through with impunity.

It was midafternoon when a distant hum in the air pricked Squill’s ears. He was lounging near Buncan, who was taking his turn at the tiller. Gragelouth and Neena were down in the main cabin, cobbling together a lunch.

“Now there’s a sound,” the otter murmured, sitting up straight.

“Wot’s a sound?” Neena emerged from below, carrying a plate of assorted cold cuts. “Rapids?”

“Probably.” Squill helped himself to the food but ate with unaccustomed gravity.

Not much time had passed before the noise had grown noticeably louder. “Big rapids,” he muttered as he cleaned his whiskers with his tongue. He walked around the central cabin to stand in the bow, craning forward while sampling the air with nose and ears.

Moments later he shouted back to Buncan. “Oi, mate! We may be comin” up on a bit o’ a problem.”

“What sort of problem?” Buncan yelled up to him.

“ ‘Tis the canyon. It seems to disappear just ahead.”

Buncan strained to see ahead. “What do you mean, ‘it seems to disappear’?”

“ ‘Ard to tell.” Abandoning the bow, the otter scampered monkeylike up the mast and clung to the top, shading his eyes with one paw as he stared forward. Buncan squinted up at him.

“See anything?”

“Not bloomin’ much. That’s the problem.”

Gragelouth’s smile had vanished. “I do not like this.”

“Didn’t the duckbill tell us this river were safe?” Neena murmured.

“He’s never been down this far,” Buncan reminded her. “He told us that, too. He said there might be rapids.” The roar had intensified, progressing from loud to deafening. “Sounds like more than rapids to me.” He called to their lookout. “Anything yet, Squill?”

The otter was silent, looking like a large brown comma astride the punctuation of the mast. A moment later he let out a sharp bark and slid down to rejoin them. His eyes were alert as he confronted his tall human friend.

“Ain’t no rapids to worry about.”

“That is a relief.” Gragelouth sighed.

“ ‘Tis a waterfall. A bloody big one, near as I can tell.”

The merchant blinked doe eyes and then turned away to commence a desperate study of the passing banks. By this time the rock walls they were traveling between verged on the perpendicular.

“There is no place to land here. No place at all!” His thick claws dug into the wood of the gunwale. “We are going to go over.”

“Just keep calm, everybody,” said Neena. “Me bro’, ‘e’s been known to exaggerate. Now Bunkoo, do you recall the tale o’ when Mudge an’ Jon-Tom ‘ad to ‘andle a situation like this?”

Buncan thought back to the stories his father had told him. He nodded eagerly as the one she was alluding to leaped to mind. “The Sloomaz-ayor-le-Weentli! The double river.”

“Righty-ho. An’ remember ‘ow they escaped it?”

He nodded vigorously. “Gragelouth, take the tiller. My friends and I have magic to make.” Passing control of the boat to the merchant, who was becoming progressively more unglued with each passing moment, Buncan dashed below and returned seconds later with his duar.

“The Sloomaz interdicted four waterfalls at the Earth’s Throat,” he reminded his companions confidently. “Surely we can spellsing our way down one.” Ahead of the boat the now thunderous roaring had given birth to a dense, rising mist.

“We’d better,” agreed Squill, “or in a few minutes we’re all gonna be mush an’ kindlin’.”

“Words.” Buncan strove to inspire them as he strummed the duar. “Lyrics. Get on it.”

Neena stared at her brother. “I don’t know anythin’ about flyin’ over waterfalls.”

“Think of something.” Gragelouth clung to the tiller as though it were some graven wooden talisman, fighting to keep them on a straight course in the grip of the now relentless torrent.

“Floating,” Squill mused. “Gently descendin’. That’s wot we want.”

“I’m going to play.” Buncan felt the mist beginning to moisten his skin. They must be very close now. “You two improvise. Fast.”

They could see the edge through the fog, a boiling white froth marking the spot where the water plunged to depths unknown. The cascade might be a dozen feet high, or a thousand. Surely not that much, he thought as he played.

They were almost to the rim and he was beginning to panic a little himself, when the otters finally began to sing.

“Water rises and water falls

Can’t turn away when it beckons and calls

Got to go over, got to see wot’s below

But we gots to land gently or we’ll sink, don’t you know?

Wanna set it down light as feather off a crow

Don’t blow It now Land us gently by the bow.”

The otters rapped smooth and easy, and Buncan followed them without effort. The glow at the duar’s nexus was concise and clear. None could have hoped for tighter harmony or crisper playing.

None of which was very reassuring when the boat nosed over the thundering edge of the falls and shot straight down, picking up speed rapidly as it fell.

Though they had to cling to the gunwale to keep from sliding down the deck and over the bow, the otters managed to keep singing. Buncan fell back against the rear wall of the central cabin and braced himself with his legs against the fortuitously narrow doorway. He needed to keep both hands on the duar. Thick arms wrapped around the swaying, useless tiller, Gragelouth dangled in midair above the now vertical deck.

They never did learn how tall the waterfall was, but it was high enough to allow the otters to slip in two more verses before they hit bottom. Whether Gragelouth’s screaming added to or hindered the spellsong was something else that would remain forever in the province of the unknowable.

Rocks leaped up at them, sparkling strangely silver. Water-saturated wind tore at their skin and clothes and fur.

An instant before they were smashed to bits on the rocks, a pale-green mist enveloped the entire boat. Gragelouth let out a terminal moan and shut his eyes. There was no pain as they struck, though Buncan experienced a sensation as if his entire body had gone to sleep and a million minute splinters briefly pierced his torso.

Boat and bodies shattered on the silver boulders. Through the mist he thought he could see his friends fly apart, still singing bravely.

He sensed the disparate parts of himself tumbling along underwater, sucked downstream by the inexorable current. Not far away he observed his disjointed hands still playing the miraculously intact duar. One of his eyes turned to look straight at its mate, and he blinked at himself. His mouth floated a few feet away, spinning lazily in the flow. His detached ears picked up the unmistakable and now slightly mystical rap of the otters. He felt no especial desire to try to locate his brain.

Bits of Gragelouth drifted by, the sloth’s uncommitted mouth bemoaning its fate in a gurgling litany.

Imperceptibly at first but with increasing speed, the fragmented parts of Buncan and sloth, of otters and boat, began to come together, to realign themselves within the river. He watched the boat re-form from two sides at once, since his separated eyes were momentarily located both to port and starboard. Shattered planks and crushed supplies slowly reconstituted themselves. The process, like the water in which they now drifted, was unnaturally silent.

It was also less than perfect. The cabin was set too far forward, and the tiller reattached itself to the stern upside down. The mast restepped itself at a slight angle. But the result was definitely their boat.

At the same time, he experienced an irresistible tugging sensation as the roaming parts of his body were ineluctably drawn toward each other. Eyes sought out sockets, organs the torso, feet their missing ankles.

It was that final verse, he mused with detachment of a different kind. Not an instant too late, they had finally hit on an effective combination of words and music.

He watched with considerable interest as his various body parts swam toward him, wherever “him” was centered. Fingers, toes, other extremities rejoined the rest of his self near the boat’s stern. Gragelouth was becoming a recognizable furry blob proximate to the tiller, complete to his clothing. Squill and Neena re-formed on the bow instead of the stern, where they’d commenced the spellsong. More than once Buncan had heard Jon-Tom employ the expression “gone to pieces.” Hitherto he had considered it only a metaphor. As the echo of the spellsong brought them together again, it struck him that he was breathing underwater. Or was he?

He took a deep breath and hesitantly felt of himself. He was whole once more, seemingly only a little sore for the experience. Forward, the otters struggled to their feet and hurried to rejoin him. Gragelouth lay slumped on the deck, as wrung out as a used towel in a public bath.

They were sailing along down the Sprilashoone, boat and bodies intact, the river flowing mellow and unthreatening beneath them. Also on either side of them. And overhead. They were in a watery tube, or tunnel. It was noisy as well as impossible.

“More like the Sloomaz than we thought, wot?” Neena examined the watery conduit quietly.

But it was not at all like that fabled river which ran through the northern ranges of Zaryt’s Teeth, as they discovered when the boat gave a sudden lurch and sailed up the side of the tunnel, continuing its progress until they were cruising along upside down, the original surface of the river directly below mem.

Buncan grabbed instinctively for the cabin doorway, then released it when he saw that he wasn’t going to plunge headfirst to the water below.

“Nothing in Dad’s story said anything about sailing upside down.”

Squill came sauntering toward him, hanging on to nothing. “ ‘Ere now; you don’t look quite yourself, mate.”

Buncan had to strain to hear clearly. Water in his ears, no doubt. He frowned as he considered his friend. “Neither do you.” Actually, neither did anyone.

For one thing, Squill’s head was protruding not from his neck but from his left side, just beneath his arm. His other arm was waving from where his head ought to have been. Then there was the more subtle problem of his left arm having been swapped for Neena’s. The slight difference in length was a clue, the disparity in fur color a dead giveaway. Not that they could compare fur, because Neena, to her utter mortification, was beneath her clothing as bald as a newborn human.

Nor did Gragelouth escape the confusion. Sizable, hairless, naked ears stuck out of the top of his head, whereas Buncan had acquired the sloth’s ears: comparatively small, gray-furred flaps of skin. That doubtless explained his current hearing difficulties.

They gathered upside down at the stern to contemplate their physiological disarray. Just as the boat had not reformed perfectly, neither had they. It was evident that in the process widely scattered body parts had sometimes taken the path of least resistance. In several instances this was not merely comical, it was downright embarrassing.

“Definitely a few kinks in that spellsong,” Buncan muttered.

“As kinked as this river,” Gragelouth added.

“This simply ain’t gonna do.” The hand atop Squill’s head gestured angrily.

“It certainly ain’t.” Neena was all but in tears over her condition. “Look at me. Just look at me!” She indicated her furless limbs.

“At least they’re in the bloody right places,” said her brother from beneath his arm.

Gragelouth’s absurd human ears twitched involuntarily. “The solution is clear. You must fix your spellsong and then sing it once again.”

“I knew we should have finished stronger,” Neena grumbled disconsolately.

“Thank goodness we got our own voices back.” Buncan shook the duar lightly. Water droplets fell past his head. A few experimental strums revealed that the instrument had survived the fall and subsequent awkward reintegration unharmed.

“This ‘ad better work.” Squill leaned against the cabin, bumping his head.

“Don’t make it sound like it was my fault.” Buncan tilted his head slightly to glare at his friend. “You two were the ones who came up with the lyrics.”

“Well, you were responsible for the bleedin’ accompaniment.”

“Arguing will help none of us.” Gragelouth held on to the tiller, more for support than out of any realistic hope of steering the inverted craft. “Please concentrate. I very much want my own ears back.”

“Hey, I didn’t ask for yours.” Buncan strummed his instrument lightly.

The otters conferenced briefly before Neena looked up, her face full of concern. “Wot if we try this again an’ it just makes things worse?”

“Wot could be worse than this?” Her brother regarded her from somewhere in the vicinity of his thud rib.

“Do you guys remember the words?” Buncan asked them.

Neena smiled wanly. Even her whiskers were missing. “I thought I were goin’ to die. When you think you’re goin’ to die, you remember everythin’ right clearly.”

He nodded, readied himself. “Let’s pick it up near where we left off.”

As they rehearsed, the boat slid down one side of the tubular stream, across the bottom, and began to crawl slowly up the other side.

“And let’s hurry. I’ve never sailed on anything like this before, and I think I’m starting to get what Dad calls seasick.”

“Oh.” Gragelouth examined him with interest. “I thought your present coloration was another consequence of our unfortunate condition.”

As the boat described acrobatic loops within the tunnel of the river, they sang and played. A now familiar silvery flame gradually enveloped the entire boat, sweeping over and through each of them with a cold, prickly sensation. It faded with the song.

When his vision cleared, Buncan noted that Squill’s head and arm had exchanged places. So had his own ears and Gragelouth’s, along with other portions of their anatomy no one had had the courage to discuss in detail. Neena had reacquired her coat of dense, carefully groomed fur, though she didn’t relax until she had counted each and every one of her restored whiskers.

Everyone was very much relieved.

“That were ‘orrible.” Neena preened herself as best she could without a comb. “Imagine goin’ through life with no more fur on your body than a “uman!”

“See,” said Gragelouth, pointing. “Your hymn of restorations has rejuvenated our craft as well.” Sure enough, the crooked mast had been straightened.

It didn’t keep them from twisting and swirling upside down, sideways, and every other which way within the tube that was the river Sprilashoone.

“How do we get clear of mis?” Buncan gazed at fee hissing, reverberating tunnel of water until he found himself growing dizzy. “How do we find a place to land?”

“How did your fathers free themselves from this other enchanted stream?” Gragelouth prompted him.

Neena scratched her head. “Spellsang ‘emselves out, I reckon. Or maybe the river just flattened out. Deuced if I remember.”

“At least we are traveling in the right direction.” The merchant managed to sound optimistic.

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 fee merchant could hold their breath half as long as fee otters.

“Your color has improved,” Grageloufe 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 fee intestines of a gigantic snake in fee grip of some wild, dyspeptic dance. Which, for all they actually knew, might in fact be fee case.

The tubular river bounced and dove, rose and plunged vertically: rapids inside a corkscrew. All fee while fee boat clung tenaciously to fee surface of fee 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. Grageloufe had long since give up any attempt at steering, because he wished to devote his full attention to not throwing up. Abandoned, fee tiller banged plaintively against fee stern.

While human and sloth fought desperately to hang on to various portions of fee boat as well as fee contents of their stomachs, fee inimitable otters amused themselves by leaping overboard and cavorting in fee crashing waters that rushed and sang on all sides. They positively reveled in fee 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 fee side of a river until you were looking down on a boat and your companions, then kick free and dive through fee air past them to splash into fee water directly alongside?

When fee otters came back aboard, Buncan weakly suggested they try spellsinging themselves free of fee Sprilashoone’s grip. Though the otters improvised and rapped enthusiastically, it did not affect their situation in fee 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 mem 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.”

Several large birds soared past overhead, their conversation drifting down to the waterborne travelers. They glanced at the river but chose not to drop down for a chat.

The Sprilashoone continued to flow resolutely eastward. Modest riverbank dwellings began to appear, and people in small boats. Not long thereafter larger vessels manifested themselves, their mixed-species crews seining the deep waters for all manner of seafood.

Gragelouth called out to one such vessel as they passed close inboard its port side. “Hanging aboard! We have been some days upon the river and need to reprovision. Is there a town close downstream where this can be effected?”

Two fisherfolk, a raccoon and a brightly clad muskrat, exchanged a bemused glance before the muskrat leaned out to reply. “Friends, I can’t imagine where you’ve come from not to know of Camrioca, but you’ll find all you need there.”

“How far?” Buncan shouted as the boats slid past each other.

With one hand the raccoon held on to the net he was splicing and with the other pointed downriver. “At your speed, another half day.”

There was no mistaking it when they swung ‘round a bend in the Sprilashoone. Camrioca was a city, not a town, a true riverine metropolis that hugged a fine deep-water bay. Hundreds of homes and two-story buildings clustered side by side along the quays, jetties, and beaches, while the central portion of the sprawling connurbation featured a walled inner city filled with structures six and even seven floors high.

After Hygria, it was most reassuring to note that Camrioca’s architecture featured incomplete walls and ceilings and a riot of color. Repeated sniffs as they searched for a vacant dock at which to tie up indicated that the town was both earthy and inviting. In other words, comfortingly and typically fetid.

Buncan found himself wondering what his parents must be thinking by now. With the privacy spellsong shielding them, Jon-Tom wouldn’t be able to track him through magic. If he and the otters had done their job well, even 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 mem 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 then- 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 mere 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, then 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 oner, 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 there 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 lohgin’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—”

“It would not matter, sir,” the mongoose interrupted him. “With the Baron it would become a challenge, a question of honor, were one who happened to catch his eye decide to decline his advances. Would your sister be likely to do that?”

“With a knife, if necessary,” Squill readily admitted.

“You’re saying you saw this Krasvin ask Neena for a date, or an assignation, or something?” Buncan said.

“Nothing like that. Please stop the pain.”

“Come on,” Buncan urged the coppersmith. “We’re wasting time. What did you see?”

“Please,” the vendor hissed at him, “I have to maintain the fiction, or word could get back to the Baron’s agents that I helped you willingly.”

“All right, all right. I’m beating you to a pulp, see? But try and hurry it up.”

“That is precisely what occurred. The Baron was accompanied by a number of his armed retainers. I was sitting right here and saw it all happen. From what I could tell, the young female not only categorically refused his invitation, she laughed at him.”

“Uh-oh,” Squill muttered.

“Though I did not know her, at that moment I myself feared for her,” the mongoose confessed. “I could of course not become involved.”

“Of course not,” Buncan said dryly.

“The Baron Krasvin is not a mink for a compatible female to laugh at. Especially in a public place. He takes his reputation very seriously. I sensed it was not the sort of insult he could allow to pass. So I continued to watch.”

“Your sister,” he told Squill, “came down this line of stalls. Down there,” he pointed, “is a public lavatory. As she was about to enter, I saw three of the Baron’s retainers jump upon her and assault her with clubs. She fought ferociously but, taken by surprise, was quickly overpowered. They placed her in a canvas sack and spirited her away. To the Baron’s mansion, I am sure.”

“And you didn’t try to intervene, or call for help?” Buncan said darkly.

The mongoose was unrepentant. “They would have killed me without a thought, and by the time city police might have arrived they would have been long gone. Besides which, nobles are but infrequently taken to task for their infractions.”

“Don’t get on ‘im, mate,” said Squill unexpectedly. “ ‘E were only protectin’ ‘imself.”

“You think she’s been taken to this Krasvin’s house,” Buncan growled. “Tell us how to get there.”

“If you will stop beating me, I will give you directions. Ah, that’s better. Perhaps you can make some kind of deal with the Baron, buy her back. He likes money as well as . . .”

“We get the picture,” Buncan told him.

The mongoose nodded. “You must of course put any foolish thoughts of forcibly liberating her out of your minds.”

“Why?” Buncan wanted to know.

“Because the Baron’s abode, within which he lives a life of barbaric ease, is impregnable. While not actually a castle, it would still take a small army to surmount its walls. I myself have seen this residence, and I promise, you would not get past the outer gate.”

“Cor, we are a small army.” Squill jabbed a thumb against his chest. “An’ we ‘ave unique weapons at our disposal.”

Do we? Buncan wondered. Can Squill and I spellsing without the harmonizing of his sister? He was less than sanguine about the possibilities.

“Don’t worry.” Buncan placed a comforting arm around bis friend’s shoulders as they made their way back to the livestock pens to fill Gragelouth in on what had transpired. “We’ll get her out.”

“I weren’t worryin’ about ‘er, mate. I was feelin’ sorry for this ‘ere Krasvin chap. ‘E ‘asn’t a clue wot ‘e’s got •imself into.”

“You’re not taking this lightly,” Buncan admonished him. “Neena’s in serious trouble.”

“Maybe. On the other ‘and, if we left ‘er ‘ere she’d probably be all right until we got back, we’d travel faster, and I bet she’d eat better than us.”

Buncan promptly smacked the otter on the side of his head, dislodging his cap. Startled, Squill gazed at his friend in surprise.

“Ow! Wot did you ‘it me for?”

“You know damn well what I hit you for! Neena’s your sister, your only sibling.”

“You’re tellin’ me.”

Duncan’s voice dropped dangerously. “Did it ever occur to you that after having his way with her, this Baron could have her killed instead of setting her free? Just for having laughed at him? From what that mongoose told us, this Krasvin sounds capable of that. Maybe if your positions, so to speak, were reversed, you’d be thinking differently.”

“Oh, all right!” Squill threw up his hands by way of surrender. “So we’ll save ‘er or die tryin’, just like all brave fools are supposed to. But our jolly merchant will decry the delay.”

Sure enough, once he’d heard all the details Gragelouth didn’t want any part of their unlikely rescue attempt. If anything, he was less encouraging than the mongoose.

“You are great spellsingers, but you are young and inexperienced, in matters of siege and war no less than in sorcery.” He brushed fur away from his mouth. “And I am sure it has occurred to you that with the female component of your spellsinging triumvirate indisposed, you may not be able to work any necromancy at all. Should that be the case, you will be two against a well-defended target. That is not bravery; it is suicide.”

“Then we’ll have to take the mongoose’s suggestion and try and negotiate her release,” Buncan said.

“We do not have anywhere near the necessary funds,” the merchant reminded him. “We would not even if I canceled the purchase of the riding lizards.”

“ ‘Ow about we sneak inside and kill ‘em one at a time?” Squill suggested.

“Oh, that’s very good.” Buncan smiled sarcastically. “We don’t even know what kind of house soldiers Krasvin employs.”

Gragelouth let out a long, resigned sigh, half of which emerged via his nostrils. “Perhaps you should leave more of this to me.”

Squill eyed him in surprise. “You don’t mean you’re comin’ with us?”

“I need your help if I am ever to ascertain the existence of the Grand Veritable. I cannot imagine encountering again any others as blindly willing and credulous as yourselves.”

“Cor, thanks, guv,” Squill murmured sardonically.

“We don’t go on without Neena. That’s understood,” Buncan said flatly. Gragelouth nodded tiredly.

“Yes, yes. But we must somehow convince, pay, or trick at least a few soldiers-at-arms into coming with us, or we will surely have less than no chance.”

“Righty-ho!” Squill straightened. “Stiff upper whiskers an’ all that. If we’re lucky, maybe we can ‘ire on a few more otters.”

“May the god of all honest merchants preserve me from that,” Gragelouth muttered, sufficiently tow so that Squill did not overhear.

CHAPTER 12

She finally began her gradual ascent from the bottom of the pool. It was one of the most beautiful pools she’d ever visited, deep and cool and perfectly circular. There were no fish, only dark olive-green fronds with scalloped edges that swayed back and forth in the current.

Sunlight and air beckoned overhead as she spiraled lazily upward, not swimming at all, carried skyward by a reverse whirlpool. When she broke the surface, she blinked and inhaled softly.

Instead of the sun, she found herself staring at a glowbulb suspended from the nave of a vaulted ceiling decorated with richly carved dark wood. Turning her head to her left, she saw a high, narrow window of stained glass. The unknown artist had used the chromatically colored, intricately shaped pieces to illustrate a bedroom scene, a scene that . . .

Waking up fast, she rolled over in the expansive, canopied bed.

There was no refreshing pool, unless one counted the swirl of fine linen on which she reposed. She was not even slightly damp. Every strand of her fur had been brushed out, and her coat radiated a fine, cushy silkiness. Instead of her familiar shorts and top, she found herself clad in a full-length dress of pink satin sewn with pearls and semiprecious stones. The sleeves were short and puffed at the shoulders. Matching slippers shod her feet. Tiny silver bells had been braided into her tail, and even her whiskers had been sprayed with pink glitter. They itched.

Her initial reaction was to strip the stones and pearls from the dress and cram them into the first container she could find, but as there was no booty bag handy she spent the time instead yanking off the too-tight slippers while inspecting more of her surroundings.

It was quite the largest bed she had ever seen, with its sweeping crewelwork canopy and line of pillows marching from one side to the other at the top. It could accommodate the most energetic couple, together with their immediate family as well as assorted aunts, uncles, and distant cousins. No doubt it was a source of continuing delight to its owner.

It suddenly struck her that she might well have been brought to this place to participate in just such entertainment.

Whoever had caused the bed to be fabricated was no giant. It was built low to the floor, and she slipped off easily, heading for the single window. The stained glass lay just out of reach. If she stacked a few things underneath she was sure she could reach the small sill at its base.

As she began her search for suitable objects, she happened to catch sight of herself in a large, oval, freestanding mirror. Her cheerful, brightly hued makeup had been redone exclusively in pink and rose, the stylish streaking running from the corners of her eyes and mouth in waves to the back of her head. Powdered ruby and garnet applied over a base of black specular hematite had been used to create the stunning effect. A glance over her shoulder as she pirouetted revealed that the back of the dress was cut in a sharp V all the way down to the base of her tail.

Blimey, she thought as she stared at her reflection, I’m bloomiri gorgeous. Too bad it was a wasted effort on someone’s part. She preferred to be asked.

The glowbulb illuminated the entire ceiling, its light supplemented by the pair of tall oil lamps which flanked the bed. She suspected the moderation of its glow was due to intent, not a weakening of the spell which powered it. Someone was striving hard for a particular atmosphere of which she, like the subdued light and the bawdy stained glass and the bed, was merely one more component.

She found a chair and placed it beneath the window. Resuming her search, she passed once more in front of the mirror and, in spite of herself, stopped to stick out a short leg. Someone had outdone themselves in fashioning the dress. Otters were difficult to tailor for, with their short waists and limbs and long, sinuous bodies. The folds of fine satin were highly flattering.

“It is better for someone else to admire such a work of art.”

She spun away from the mirror as the speaker shut the single door behind him. The mink was no taller than she, and slightly slimmer. His fur was finer and darker. He wore jeweled sandals with pantaloons and a vest of metallic red accented with black leather. The vest had a high, stiff collar which framed his finely formed head. More decoration than threat, a bejeweled dagger was secured at his waist. A double earring dangled from his left ear.

Unlike his complimentary tone, the expression on his face was positively predatory. Not that her situation required additional explication. Neena was young but hardly naive. Her elegant attire had been provided for her captor’s enjoyment, not hers.

Her pupils dilated sharply. “I know you. You’re the arrogant bastard from the marketplace. You kidnapped me.”

“Correct on both counts.” The mink had a brusque, clipped manner of speaking. “I am the Baron Koliac Krasvin, at your servicing, which I intend to carry out shortly.”

“I’ll wager ‘tis ‘shortly,’ all right.”

His laconic smile vanished. “Your attempt at humor is ill-timed. I suggest you lighten your attitude instead and it will be the better for you. You may call me Koliac.”

“ ‘Ow about ‘Colon’ instead? Or, if you’d prefer a little more familiarity, Shithead.”

One thing for the Baron: He was not easily nonplussed. “Please, no simple bucolic obscenities. If you are going to call me names, at least strive for inventiveness.”

That sparked an idea. Not a great one, but her options were pretty limited. “You want to see inventive? I’ll show you inventive.” She straightened. “You’d better open that door right now, or I won’t be responsible for the ‘orrible things that’ll ensue.”

Krasvin took a dainty, measured step forward, grinning unpleasantly. “That’s all right. I will.”

She retreated from the vicinity of the mirror. “I’m warnin’ you; I’m a spellsinger, I am.”

His grin widened. “Oh, surely. And you are about to turn me into a newt.”

“I mean it. I’ll do it.”

“You certainly will,” Krasvin assured her, “willingly or otherwise. You know, I’ve never met a spellsinger, but I’ve heard of them. Do not their mystic conjurations require instrumental accompaniment? I know for a fact that you do not have an instrument on you. At least, not a musical one.”

She found herself being backed toward the bed, which was not a preferred line of retreat. “ ‘Ere now, don’t you realize that you’re a very offensive person?”

“Oh, surely. It’s an integral part of my personality. But I’ve learned to live with it. I noticed that you like your gown. It was originally sewn for a lady mink, but I had it modified especially for you.”

“You needn’t ‘ave bothered.”

“No bother.”

“Doesn’t it trouble you that I’m an otter an’ not a mink?”

“On the contrary, I find the differences intriguing rather than disconcerting. Besides which, my tastes are quite broad. As soon as I set eyes on you I knew that an inevitable succession of events was about to commence. These will conclude presently. And I grow tired of talking.”

She looked around desperately, but there was only the single high window and the one door. She considered taking a running jump at the stained glass, but it was a foolish notion. Otters were adept at many kinds of physical exertion, but with their short legs running jumps could not be counted among them. If they’d been in the water, now . . .

The door would surely be guarded. There was no other potential exit, not even a fireplace. Only the bed, several chests full of clothing, the canopy over the bed which was too fragile to support anyone, a couple of chairs, the oval mirror, the cold cut-slate floor, the single glowbulb high above, and the two freestanding oil lamps.

Those were her only potential weapons. But minks were quick. If she threw a lamp and missed, she doubted it would improve his disposition any. And he could always call for help.

She decided to try another tack. “Please, good sir; me friends and I are just passing through this part o’ the world. They’ll come lookin’ for me, don’t you know. One o’ them is a rich an’ powerful merchant.”

“Who has to haggle for a bargain in the marketplace.” As he advanced she saw that Krasvin’s teeth were very white, and very sharp.

She bumped up against the bed frame and started edging sideways. While undeniably beautiful, the dress was a definite hindrance. Perhaps that was the idea.

“Stay away from me.”

“On the contrary, I intend to get quite close to you. Bear in mind that I have gone to some trouble and expense to position you in your present circumstances. I have no intention of letting you leave until we have come to know each other much better. So to speak. A number of times.”

“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?”

“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 or 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 Camrioca.” 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.”

Buncan looked disgusted. “And with your sister in mortal danger.”

“Aw, she ain’t in no mortal danger, Buncan.” Despite his disclaimer, Squill looked uncomfortable. “I mean, wot’s the worst thing that could ‘appen to ‘er?” “Put yourself in her position,” Buncan told him. The otter shrugged, but it was halfhearted at best. “See?”

A heavy claw tapped him on the shoulder. “Unlike you and your friend, I may have succeeded in securing us some assistance.”

Buncan’s surprise must have showed. Squill eyed the sloth admiringly.

“Wondered where you’d got off to,” he mumbled.

“I was searching for some solution to our difficult situation. Our fiscal dilemma, you see, is twofold. If we pay for adequate assistance at arms, we will be unable to afford ground transportation with which to continue our journey, and if we choose instead to make arrangements for the latter, we must then go against this Baron without help.”

“Why not then try to find one who might, bearing in mind our severely limited resources, serve equally well both needs?”

“Oi, you’ve gone an’ ‘ired on a giant!” Squill barked excitedly.

“Though I have heard stories of such creatures, I have never met an actual giant of any tribe.”

Buncan gestured in the direction of the lion and his drinking companions. “Black-mane there could pull quite a load, but not the three of us together with supplies, and he’s the biggest in the place.”

Gragelouth shifted on his chair and leaned closer. “Bipeds fight; quadrupeds carry. That is the natural order of things. Among the intelligent tribes who still walk on all fours, most are inclined to pacific pursuits, with but few inclined to battle. Yet there are always exceptions. I believe I may have found one such.”

“A ‘eavy ‘orse who’s willin’ to fight,” Squill exclaimed. “An’ afterward, carry the lot of us swift an’ sure away from this place.”

“No. Our potential ally is not a member of the equine tribe.”

“Where is he?” Buncan asked.

“This is a large establishment. There are numerous stalls and drinking troughs provided out back for customers of four legs.”

“Well, if it ain’t no ‘orse,” Squill mumbled bemusedly, “then wot the bloody ‘ell is it?”

“Come and see.” Gragelouth slid off his chair. “I am convinced the individual in question will work cheap.”

“Almost reason enough to hire him right there.” Buncan followed the merchant down the length of the bar, toward the rear of the tavern.

“ ‘E’s a fighter, this one?” Squill was already suspicious of this low-priced avatar.

“The bartender I spoke with knows him, says that he has been in many battles and is a veteran fighter. He is also large enough to transport all of us and a modicum of carefully packed supplies to the northwest. Not quickly or comfortably, perhaps, but efficiently. It will be far better than trying to continue on foot.”

“If he’ll hire on.” Buncan restrained his enthusiasm. “Talea always says that anything which appears to be too good to be true usually is.”

“His name,” Gragelouth continued, “is Snaugenhutt.”

“Don’t sound like no poffy lute player,” Squill commented approvingly as they exited the rear of the tavern and found themselves in a large circular corral.

A high wooden fence enclosed the grounds, which consisted of packed earth paved with fresh straw. A dozen stalls were arranged in a crescent facing the back of the main structure. Two sets of drinking troughs formed a pair of star patterns on the open ground. Smaller facilities were available within each high-roofed stall, each of which boasted a bed of thicker straw mixed with moss. Lavatory facilities were visible off to the left.

A quartet of horses, two males and two females, stood by one of the star troughs, drinking and chatting amiably. They wore custom-cut blankets and tack, the mares additionally displaying elaborately coiffed manes and tails. One had her hooves painted with blue glitter. The nearest stallion glanced only briefly in the direction of the three bipeds before rejoining the conversation.

The farthest stall to the right was occupied by a pair of merinos, already bedding down for the night. One was naked from the forelegs down, having obviously made a recent sale of wool.

Gragelouth led them toward the center stall. A husky barmaid of the civet tribe was coming toward them, lugging an empty pail. Buncan could smell the tart residue at the bottom of the container as she passed them without a glance. That odor was quickly overwhelmed by the stink of the stall itself, which reeked of cheap liquor and musky urine. That he was able to ignore the stench was due to the dominating presence near the back of the shelter of a gigantic, deeply scarred gray mass. It seemed to be facing away from mem, though Buncan couldn’t be sure.

“That’s him, I think,” said Gragelouth. “He fits the bartender’s description.”

“Sure wouldn’t mistake ‘im for one o’ those sleepin’ sheep,” Squill ventured.

“A rhinoceros. I’ve never met one of his tribe before. They’re bigger than I imagined.” A fascinated Buncan slowed as they neared the stall’s entrance. “That back’s sure big enough to carry all four of us.” He took in the scars and wrinkles in the slabs of gray skin. “He looks kind of . . . old.”

“Not old, mate, so much as used,” Squill corrected his companion. “I mean, this old chap ‘as been bad beat up, don’t you know?” The otter sniffed pointedly. “ ‘E’s been through the wars, an’ I don’t mean the fightin’ kind.”

“He does seem a little the worse for wear.” Gragelouth studied the back of their hoped-for savior speculatively.

“Worse for wear me bollocks.” Squill took a wary step back from that prodigious and clearly unstable rear end. “ ‘E’s bloomin’ swozzled, ‘e is. Plastered, smashed, looped, juiced. Drunk on ‘is feet.” The otter pinched his nose. “Wot’s more, ‘is taste in spirits stinks worse than ‘e does.”

At that the great head swung around into view and a single eye regarded them from beneath a drooping, supercilious brow. A horn the length of Buncan’s arm tipped the weaving snout, backed by a second half its size. This formidable brace of keratin weapons was darkly stained.

Gragelouth approached tentatively. “Are you the warrior they call Snaugenhutt?”

The reply seemed to come not from the creature’s throat but his belly. The accompanying bouquet was overpowering.

“What?”

Though staggered by the stench, Gragelouth risked another step. “Snaugenhutt. Are you the warrior . . . ?”

“Oh, yeah.” The rhino’s voice reminded Buncan of the noises made by the sewer pipes that ran beneath central Lynchbany. “That’s me, isn’t it?”

The great horned skull bobbed up and down and the eye blinked slowly. “Do I know you?”

As the merchant prepared to reply, there emerged from the open mouth a belch of such gargantuan proportions as to register as a seismic disturbance in towns and villages some distance away. This was accompanied by a misty cloud of effluvia noxious enough to burn Buncan’s eyes. He stumbled backward several steps, beating frantically at the air in front of his face. How Gragelouth held his ground he couldn’t imagine.

As the vapor dissipated, Buncan saw that the rhino had turned to face them. Long, dirty hairs emerged from the inconceivably filthy depths of his shell-like ears.

Buncan took it upon himself to aid Gragelouth. “No, you don’t know us, but we’ve heard of you. We’re in real trouble, and we need your help. We want to hire you.”

The heavy head swung toward him. “Trouble, eh? What kind of trouble?”

Buncan tried to shield his mouth and nostrils as decorously as possible. It might have been worse. Snaugenhutt might have been a dragon breathing fire.

Come to think of it, that might not be worse.

He indicated Squill, who stood quietly nearby turning a polite shade of pea green. “My friend’s sister has been kidnapped by the Baron Koliac Krasvin.”

“Krappin, Kraken. Krasvin.” Snaugenhutt looked pleased with himself at having gotten it right. Each word was a grunt unto itself. “Heard of him. Ermine, isn’t he?”

“Weasel,” Buncan supplied helpfully.

“Right, weasel. Bad reputation. Bad.” The head motivated from side to side.

“Krasvin’s holding her at his estate. We’re bound to try and rescue her. To do that we need professional help.” He glanced at Gragelouth. “You came highly recommended.”

“Naturally.” The rhino seemed to straighten a little. “I am after all the most experienced fighter in these parts.”

“You’re certainly the biggest.” Buncan intended it as a compliment.

“Yeah, that too, that too.” Spittle clung to the heavy lower lip. “But this Baron, I’ve heard about his place. Hard to break into. What do you think, Viz?”

A small bird emerged unexpectedly from the fold of the rhino’s neck. It plonked itself down between the twitching ears and yawned, its wings stretching wide. A miniature blue beret crowned the feathered head and a matching scarf was wound once around the delicate neck. The bird made tiny smacking sounds with its beak and leaned forward to blink at the visitors.

“I think . . . I think I’m tired.” With that it promptly fell over backward, legs in the air, and commenced snoring heavily, sounding rather like a large mosquito.

“E’s swozzled too,” Squill commented in disgust.

“Don’t mind Viz.” The rhino snorted softly. “He’s my tickbird. Been on board for years. But he can’t hold his liquor. I’ve told him that booze and parasites don’t mix. All that chiton and green goo and . . .”

Squill made a dash for the lavatory facilities, not caring that they were designed for creatures much larger than he.

Buncan fought to maintain his own stability. The tickbird snored on. “We don’t expect charity. I’ve learned better than to ask for that. We’ll pay.”

“What we can,” Gragelouth put in hastily.

“And after we’ve saved Neena we’ll need your help in getting away from here.”

“A rescue, eh?” Snaugenhutt hiccoughed volcanically. “A noble cause. Been a long time since I did anything noble. What do you think, Viz?” The tickbird snored on, oblivious.

“Yeah, I’ll help you. When do we start?”

Buncan blinked. “Just like that? Don’t you want to know the details?”

“What details? Do I look like the subtle type, human?”

“Uh, no.”

“They won’t be expecting a frontal assault.” Snaugenhutt was murmuring to himself. “I’ve heard some of the stories about this Krasvin. Thinks he’s the greatest thing in fur. We’ll surprise him. Bust his tail.”

“Sure we will,” muttered Buncan. “We’ll sneak you inside in a suitcase, dump you out, and let you exhale in the faces of the Baron’s soldiers.” Louder he said, “You don’t drink like this all the time, do you?”

“Certainly not.” As the rhino swayed on pillarlike legs, a smile creased that slouching jaw. “Sometimes I drink seriously.”

Buncan turned to Gragelouth. “Maybe we ought to look elsewhere.”

“What elsewhere?” The sloth sniffed resignedly. “I took the best recommendation of the locals I encountered.”

“Another tavern.” Buncan persisted. “Maybe down by the waterfront.”

Blinking unsteadily, Snaugenhutt took a ponderous step toward them. “Something wrong? You don’t want my help? You don’t want the assistance of the greatest four-legged warrior on the High Plateau?” His head twisted over and back, gesturing at his flank as best he could with the tall horn.

“Take a look at these scars. See that one on the outside of my rear leg? Got that at the Battle of Muuloden. Scattered twenty big cats all by myself while carrying ten fully armed bipeds into combat. And that one all the way in back, just to the left of my tail? Caught a leg-sized catapult spear right in the butt at the height of the Gabber’s Glen Incident. Didn’t even slow me down. Had my side hang their battle flag from it.” He looked momentarily wistful. “Trampled plenty underhoof in that one, and gored half a dozen more.”

“We have no doubt of your fighting history.” Gragelouth made placating gestures. “If you do not mind my inquiring, how long ago did these exploits take place?”

“How long?” The heavy brow drooped lower still. “Don’t remember. Never was real good with dates.” He chuckled, and it ended in a rattling cough. As spittle drooled from his mouth, even the dead straw seemed to curl away from it.

Gragelouth gestured with a heavily clawed hand. “Though our current resources are . . . limited . . . we must have professional help. If you are willing to enter our service for what recompense we can presently offer, we may be able to arrange for some additional payment at a future date.”

Still swaying, Snaugenhutt straightened as much as he was able, staring at the sloth past the tall horn. “Count me in. Not because of the money, but because a lady’s virtue is at stake.”

“She’s no quadruped,” Buncan reminded him.

One eye considered him haughtily. “Where virtue is concerned, the tribe doesn’t matter. There’s honor to uphold and gallantry to preserve.”

With that he hiccoughed again, at least a 7.5 on the hiccough scale, and keeled over sideways. It was akin to watching a great ship slide slowly beneath the waves.

As the vast mass struck the ground with a dull whomp, the three travelers hastily backed clear. After satisfying their curiosity, the horses and sheep returned to their respective socializing. Snaugenhutt began to emit Promethean snores.

Having been unceremoniously dumped into the straw, the dazed tickbird picked itself up and fluttered unsteadily to the top of the comatose bulk. Landing atop the half-exposed belly, it curled up in its wings and lapsed back into its momentarily disturbed stupor.

Buncan was not pleased with the picture. “There they are. Our army. Neena’s saviors. Cheap at half the price.” He turned to the merchant. “Surely we can do better than this, even with as little as we have to offer?”

Gragelouth stared up at the tall human. “I am open to suggestions, my young friend.”

“Maybe if we could get the bloated sod sobered up.” Squill studied the insensible mass of gray flesh. “If ‘e got up to speed, ‘e’s big enough to do some damage. If ‘e “as any speed left in ‘im, that is.” He glanced at his friend. “At this point any ‘elp’s better than no ‘elp. We could load the unconscious bugger onto a wagon an’ roll it downhill. Might smash in this Krasvin’s front door, might not.”

“We don’t know if there’s a hill in front of the Baron’s mansion,” Buncan pointed out patiently. “I’m not pushing that load one stride uphill, and where would we get a wagon, anyway?”

“Steal it.” Squill smiled serenely.

“We can do nothing until he sobers up.” Gragelouth licked his forehead. “Or, at the very least, awakens.”