CHAPTER 5
After the episode in the woods Buncan made a show of tending seriously to his studies, but each day he waited for the opportunity to meet with Squill and Neena. They chose a small glade well away from the river in which to practice. Not out of fear of encountering any more polite but irritated cetaceans, but to avoid those angry citizens whose waterfront homes and business establishments had been damaged by the mysterious tidal bore of some days previous.
They sang only small spells, conjuring up nothing they couldn’t deal with on a nontheurgic level, practicing and refining their ability to match Buncan’s music to the otters’ improvised lyrics. Repetition gave rise to confidence as they invented raps for recovering spent arrows or blunting sword points.
Sharpened skills enabled them to turn grass blue, or open sizable holes in the ground without the use of spade or shovel. They spellsang into existence not raw fish but cooked food, and sleeping platforms complete with fresh linen.
Soon they were feeling very good about themselves and their talent. They just couldn’t figure out what to do with it. Duncan devoted a good deal of time to the problem, certain that if they just kept their secret and had patience an appropriate situation would present itself.
It was peaceful in the house where the west side of the tree wrapped itself around the dimensionally expanded den. Outside, past the neatly maintained lawn and flowers, the Shortstub flowed tranquil and undisturbed to the south.
Father and son were alone, reading. Duncan had heard Jon-Tom speak of something from his own world called “television,” but from his description of it Buncan didn’t see how it could better a book for good company and entertainment. It was an evaluation Jon-Tom chose never to dispute.
His mother was finishing up in the kitchen as the door pealed for attention. Buncan barely looked up from his reading as she entered the hall. As he watched he envisioned her wielding the sword she kept in the back of the broom closet instead of the dishcloth she was presently carrying. It was a difficult image to sustain, no matter how many tales he recalled of her early life.
She leaned back to peer into the den. “Dear, there’s an owl to see you.”
Jon-Tom put down the large book he’d been browsing and rubbed his eyes. He needed glasses, Buncan knew, but insisted on using imperfect vision spells instead. They needed constant adjustment.
Buncan headed for the kitchen on the pretext of getting something to eat. Actually, he rose and moved because it offered a much better view of the front door.
Clothahump’s famulus Mulwit stood there, rustling his great wings as he spoke to Jon-Tom, who knelt on one knee to respond to the owl. Talea lingered nearby. Buncan could overhear them without straining.
“ . . . but the Master declares that youuu have to come now,” the famulus was saying insistently.
“It’s awfully late,” Buncan heard his father reply. “And it’s chilly out. Why can’t it wait until tomorrow?”
“Master Clothahump did not offer explanations,” Mulwit hooted. “He says for youuu to come now. Dooo youuu want me tooo go back and tell him you’re not coming? If youuu dooo it will go hard on me.”
“If it’s that urgent . . .” Jon-Tom rose and turned to face Talea. “You heard. I’ve got to go. I know it’s late, but it seems to be important.”
Talea stared up at him. “You’re not going off on some sort of silly quest or something again, are you?”
He put his hands on her shoulders. “Now look: I told you when you got pregnant that I’ve done with all that. I’ve a family and a home to look after, a profitable and respected profession, and they come first. The time when Mudge and I traipsed all over the world getting into all sorts of trouble is history.”
“Just so long as you understand that,” she responded. “Because by all the imbalances in the Aether, if that hardshell ropes you into some crazy expedition I’ll cut off your feet and hide them in the closet before I’ll let you go.”
“Now, love.” Buncan heard the moist echo of a kiss. “Clothahump just wants to network with me.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Right, Mulwit?”
“So far as I am permitted to know, Master Jon-Tom. With youuu, and one other.”
Jon-Tom’s brow furrowed. “There’s someone else involved?”
“Not here, not here!” The agitated famulus was flapping his wings as he hopped back and forth from one foot to the other. “Already we have lingered tooo long.”
“Just let me get my cloak.” Jon-Tom hesitated at the open hall closet. “Do you think I’ll need my duar?”
“Wizardry was not spoken of,” the famulus responded. “Only talk.”
“Good.” Jon-Tom swept the iridescent lizard-skin cloak around his shoulders, bestowed another kiss upon Talea, and disappeared into the night in the company of the anxious owl.
As his mother reentered the kitchen, Buncan feigned interest in a piece of cake. “What was that all about?”
Talea stood at the sink, gazing out the oval window in the direction of the dark river. Her demeanor was stiff. “I’ll tell you something, boy. If your father gets himself sucked into something dangerous . . .”
“Didn’t you used to do dangerous things, Mom?”
She turned to him. “That was different. When I was young I had to do certain things to survive.” She attacked the remnants of the innocent dinner dishes, refusing as always to use the cleaning spells stocked in the cupboard under the towels.
“Is there some kind of problem?” The indifference of his query was crafted with admirable skill.
“How the hell should I know? You think they tell me anything? Anyone would think I had no acquaintance with the mysteries of the Universe. I never did trust that turtle completely.”
“You can’t ever trust wizards, Mom. It’s in their nature. They can’t help it.”
“Every time your father answered one of that aged reptile’s calls, it got him into trouble.”
Buncan set the cake aside, rose, and stood behind his much shorter mother, resting his hands on her shoulders. “Now, Mom. If Dad said he wasn’t going to get involved in anything, then I’m sure he isn’t. I just wonder what the rush is all about.”
“Oh, who knows,” she muttered irritably. “Some mother wants to change the sex of her unborn two days before it’s due, or that fat Mrs. Twogg on the other side of Lynchbany is having digestive troubles again. Emergency!” She assaulted the stewpot with a vigor no mere spell could match.
“Yeah, well, I’ve pretty much had it, Mom. I’m going on up to bed.”
She glanced sideways at him. “Kind of early, isn’t it?” He shrugged. “I’ve been reading all evening, and I had kind of a rough day at school.”
She turned to him and put soapy fingers on his cheek. “You have a good mind, Buncan. Better than mine. You also have talent, but not everyone can be a spellsinger like your father.”
“I know, Mom.”
The outside glowbulbs stayed dark as he slipped out his bedroom window and shinnied down the trunk of the tree, heading northwest across the back lawn. There was hardly enough moon to count as an afterthought, and it was difficult to see the way as he hurried along the secondary path through the woods. The Belltrees were silent, their tinkling blooms closed for the night.
Breathing hard, he still managed to arrive at the edge of the clearing surrounding the wizard’s tree just as Mulwit and his father appeared. He waited a suitable interval after they entered. Tethered in the corral out back were a pan: of husky dray lizards and the silhouette of a large wagon he didn’t recognize.
Normally the wizard kept the clearing alarmed, but those spells would likely remain deactivated until his father departed. With care Buncan thought he could slip inside the tree undetected. He edged forward, advancing noiselessly.
The door was unsealed, and he eased it aside. There was no need to lock it, since anyone not familiar with the way would immediately find themselves confronting an impassable dead end exactly like the burned-out cor
e of an old oak. Remembering from many previous visits the curious twists and turns of the tree’s ulterior, he successfully advanced past the entrance and soon found himself standing in the hallway outside Clothahump’s front study. Not too long ago he had sat in that same sanctuary discussing his personal problems with the wizard.
He crept as close as he dared, until he could hear Jon-Tom and Clothahump’s conversation clearly. A third voice kept interposing commentary. Not Mulwit, which meant that part of his attention would have to remain on the lookout for the nosy owl. Cautiously Buncan allowed himself a quick peek into the room.
The venerable turtle was seated in his special chair, while Jon-Tom sprawled on the long couch beneath the window. Seated at the other end was a hirsute stranger, a sloth by tribe. Their kind was uncommon in the Bellwoods, preferring as they did warmer, more southerly climes.
This one wore a thin vest of what looked like metal foil. Even a hasty glance was enough to show that it was too flimsy to be any kind of armor. The long-legged pants of gray cotton were something of a surprise, but the open-toed sandals seemed appropriate. Though severely trimmed, the claws on the visitor’s hands and feet were still formidable. Clearly alert and attentive, the visitor nonetheless gave the appearance of one half asleep, an unfortunate and unavoidable characteristic of his kind. His words were carefully chosen, and no one would mistake his natural slowness of speech for stupidity.
He wore an extravagant amount of delicate gold jewelry.
Jon-Tom sipped from a goblet while Clothahump leaned on the sturdy cane he favored lately and scrutinized the visitor through his thick glasses.
“I have done as you requested, traveler Gragelouth,” the wizard was saying. “I have roused myself from deep slumber and, since you insisted you would relate your tale to no fewer man two witnesses of sorceral competence, caused to be brought hence my junior partner.” (Clothahump always stuck in that “junior,” Buncan reflected sourly.) The wizard leaned slightly but threateningly forward.
“All I have to add is that what you have to say had better be worth all this inconvenience. After a few hundred years, one begins to value one’s time.”
The sloth seemed anxious though unintimidated. “I assure you I would not waste your time, Master.” He looked at Jon-Tom. “As I have informed your colleague, I am a traveling merchant, dealing mostly in domestic utensils and household goods.”
“Saw your wagon and team out back,” Jon-Tom commented.
Gragelouth nodded. “I buy and sell anything, but that is my area of specialization.”
“Enough personal history,” grumbled Clothahump. “Your story.”
“Certainly.” The sloth looked thoughtful as he began to reminisce. “I was far to the north of here, traveling a back road in the vicinity of L’bor, when a singular sight happened to catch my eye. It appeared to be an injured individual lying forsaken by the side of the road.” He sniffed.
“You can imagine that I was reluctant to stop. It is a common and well-known ploy of bandits to set out one of their own as bait, decorated to appear damaged, to attract the attention of the naturally solicitous, whereupon when the would-be Samaritan halts to render assistance, the others fall upon and rob him, or worse.
“My outfit, however, is not built for speed, and I would have had little hope of outrunning a band of determined dacoits anyway. As this solitary individual’s injuries struck me as quite real, I halted and went to render what assistance I could.”
“That was noble of you.” Jon-Tom mused privately that the merchant might just as easily have had in mind the same thought as a band of passing robbers.
“His name was Juh Phit, a fox by typus, and his desperate condition was due not to harm suffered in battle but to age, starvation, and exposure. He was still alive when I found him. Weak and exhausted as he was, he still attempted to draw the sword slung at his side when I approached.
“Now, I am no fighter, Masters, and I started to pull back. When he saw that he beckoned me close, and related to me the gist of the tale I now pass on to you.
“He had been long afoot and had come stumbling all that way down out of the high mountains to the northwest of L’bor. Where precisely he had been he could not say, being no geographer or navigator himself. But he had found something up there, and his description of the exact location was marked by the kind of detail one masters when memorizing a field of battle, for I soon found out that he was a mercenary by trade.
“This lifelong professional soldier had encountered something which had frightened him badly. So anxious was he to flee its environs that he lost both his mount and his kit in his rush to escape, and it was only by some miracle that he had half run, half wandered as far southeast as L’bor, shunning all who crossed his path.
“One more day, Masters, and he would have made it to the outskirts of that northern town, which, he confided to me, was his intended destination. But his strength had at last deserted him, his body had played him false, and he had fallen helpless where I encountered him, at which point he was nearer death than L’bor.
“I comforted him and gave him water, but he was too weak to take food.”
“So what did he find in the northwestern mountains?” In Jon-Tom’s eyes was the hint of an old gleam. “Treasure? Some fabulous forgotten city?”
“Nothing like that,” said the merchant. “I do not pretend to understand all that he said. Only that what he found had been compelling and terrifying enough to drive him to that desperate condition. I have discussed mis with others whom I knew or encountered on my journey here, and if anything their ignorance on the subject exceeds my own.
“Only one, who had had some minor dealings with matters sorceral, suggested that I seek you out. This I have done because this dead soldier’s tale has become something of an obsession with me, and I desire deeply to understand it. Also, it was in a sense all that this unfortunate fox had to bequeath, the only other thing of value left in his possession being his oft-used sword.”
“Which you have with you?” Jon-Tom inquired.
The sloth looked away. “Uh, no. I hocked it. I am after all a merchant, and I have to live.”
“This thing he encountered?” said Qothahump impatiently.
Gragelouth turned gratefully to the wizard. “He called it ‘The Grand Veritable.’“
Over the years Duncan had seen the wizard Clothahump deal with much that was marvelous and inexplicable, from conjuring up entire buildings to transmuting gold into lead (the latter not being a spell that was overmuch in demand, but one which the wizard often performed for practice). In all that time he had never seen the turtle react as he did at that moment.
Clothahump jerked backward so sharply that it snapped the minor retention spell that held his heavy glasses on his beak. With a grunt he picked them off the floor and carefully set them back in place. As for Jon-Tom, he could only look on in bewilderment.
When he had fully recovered, the wizard spoke slowly and with great certitude. “There is no such thing as the Grand Veritable. It’s nothing more than a widespread rumor among those of us in the Profession. An old rumor, but a rumor nonetheless. It does not exist. Some wish that it did, but wishing and reality are infrequent companions.”
“I know I never heard of it,” Jon-Tom added.
Clothahump squinted at him. “You would not, nor is it something you’d be likely to encounter in your spellsinging. It is not a subject to spark casual conversation.”
Gragelouth seemed hesitant to comment, perhaps a bit taken aback by the vehemence of the great wizard’s reaction. “I do not know whether it exists or not. I only repeat to you the tale of the dying mercenary. Real or not, it cost him his life.”
“It’s not unknown for individuals weakened by exposure and its consequences to suffer from delusions,” Jon-Tom pointed out.
The sloth favored the spellsinger with his inherently mournful expression and perpetually sad eyes. “I may be ignorant in matters thaumaturgical, sir, but I flatter my
self that I am a good judge of people. It is a consequence of being a successful trader. Nor have I suffered the companionship, however brief, of many on the verge of death. That confessed, I am convinced those who are about to depart this plane of existence have no reason to lie to a stranger.”
Jon-Tom waved off the rationalization. “Okay, so this Juh Phit believed he’d encountered something he called the Grand Veritable. That doesn’t mean he actually did so.”
“I am of course in no position to dispute that.” The merchant’s voice was as soft as his pelt.
“Even people of good intentions sometimes repeat falsehoods so often they come to think of mem as truths,” Jon-Tom added. “Real estate brokers, for example.”
“I can only say that I received the dying testament of this soldier Juh Phit, and that I believe in what he said.”
“Something so dangerous, so insidious, could not exist,” Clothahump was mumbling. “When I think of the damage it could cause if it did, the havoc it could wreak, I shudder inside my shell.” He leaned back in the chair, the willow springs creaking beneath his weight.
“Just what exactly is this rumor, anyway?” Jon-Tom wanted to know. Out in the hallway Buncan listened motionless, hardly daring to breathe.
“Like all truly great dangers it is at once simple and complex,” Clothahump was moved to explain. “To adequately analyze it would require its use, a proposition fiendishly designed to ensnare any who would attempt it. Its attractions would by definition be simultaneously irresistible and invariably fatal.” He took a deep breath. “The Grand Veritable, lad, is a notion best avoided by all sensible-thinking folk. Forget about it. Pretend you never heard of it In the hands of even the most clever, careful, and well-meaning of individuals, it could destroy entire communities, up to and including civilization as we know it.
“Which is why it cannot exist. The mere concept is too terrifying to contemplate.” As he delivered this warning the lights inside the tree dimmed until it was black in the hallway and downright murky in the study.
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