Son Of Spellsinger

by Alan Dean Foster

  “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 bet
ter 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 immed
iately!”

  “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.