Son Of Spellsinger

by Alan Dean Foster

  “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?”