Son Of Spellsinger

by Alan Dean Foster

  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 ne
cromancy 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.”