Son of Spellsinger: A Spellsinger Adventure (Book Seven)

by Alan Dean Foster

  “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.

  The reduced illumination did not trouble Mulwit, who came flapping into the room through the portal on the side opposite Buncan.

  “I didn’t call for you,” Clothahump admonished the famulus.

  Mulwit perched on the back of an empty chair. “Youuu sounded exercised, Master. I thought perhaps youuu might need some assistance.”

  “Your concern is praiseworthy but misplaced.” The turtle harrumphed. “As long as you’re here you might as well hang around.” He smiled as much as his inflexible beak allowed. “That was an old joke between your predecessor and me.” He squinted at the glowbulbs. “Here, this won’t do.” A quick, arcane sentence restored the study to its previous brightness.

  Buncan knew he was pushing his luck by staying. If not Clothahump or his father, the quick-eyed, sharp-eared Mulwit was sure to spot him soon. That would lead to accusatory questions he would be unable to satisfactorily answer. But fascination held him in the hallway.

  The Grand Veritable, the merchant Gragelouth had called it. Reality or delusion, it had certainly provoked Clothahump. What could be formidable enough to cause the great wizard to adamantly refuse to acknowledge so much as its possible existence? What could frighten the all-powerful Clothahump that badly?

  “The soldier Juh Phit spoke of it in more efficacious terms.” Gragelouth dug at a furry ear.

  “How like a mercenary,” Clothahump murmured.

  “He said that possession could make one wealthy beyond imagination. That any desire could be fulfilled if one but learned how to use the Veritable properly.”

  “The true horrors always bewitch,” said Clothahump. “The Grand Veritable does not exist, and if it does, it is best left alone.” He stared evenly at his nocturnal visitor. “The fate of your Juh Phit should be proof enough of that. Continue to pursue this rumor and you will surely meet a similar end.” He turned abruptly on Jon-Tom, jabbing a finger in his direction.

  “As for you, associate, I know how your mind works. Put aside all such thoughts. Besides, your mate would cut you off at the knees if you proposed anything.”

  “Wasn’t going to,” Jon-Tom mumbled.

  “We have ample work to keep us busy, and I need you here. Even if I did not, I would do everything in my power to stop you from pursuing this dangerous rumor.”

  “I’m not afraid of rumors.” Out in the hall, Buncan felt an unexpected surge of pride. “Talea, however, is another matter.” Buncan slumped.

  “Deal solely with those nightmares which have been domesticated by sleep,” Clothahump advised his human colleagues, “and leave the real ones to the reckless.” He turned back to face the sloth. “You have come far to see us, merchant. To what purpose?”

  “I think what Juh Phit spoke of as he lay dying in my arms is worthy of further investigation, but I have no experience in matters mystical. I thought to seek assistance.” The sloth’s persistence in the face of Clothahump’s daunting skepticism was admirable, Buncan mused.

  “You intend to pursue this matter purely in the spirit of intellectual inquiry, of course.” The wizard stared knowingly at his guest.

  “I am a merchant, a trader in goods and stores.” Gragelouth showed the upturned palms of heavy, clawed hands. “I do not deny that I seek profit alongside elucidation. Tell me: With proper supervision could not this Veritable be a force for good?”

  “No, never!” Clothahump insisted vehemently. “It can only cause divisiveness and disruption, destruction and death. On this the old tales are explicit. I would not trust its possession even to myself.”

  “You can at least allow as how someone else might hold a differing opinion.” The merchant wasn’t afraid to defend his ground, Jon-Tom thought approvingly.

  “Anyone is entitled to an opinion about hearsay,” Clothahump grunted. Searching a drawer in his plastron, he removed a small cube of something green and odious, plopped it in his mouth, and chewed reflectively as he slammed the drawer shut. “You’ll get no help from me. I’m too old to go chasing after dangerous rumors.”

  “You’ve been ‘getting old’ for a hundred and fifty years,” Jon-Tom commented.

  The turtle nodded. “And believe me, nothing gets old faster than getting old.” He sighed heavily. “If you want my advice, traveler, you’ll go back to your trading and forget this nonsense. If it’s nothing but rumor you’ll perish in the seeking of it, and if it’s at all for real, you’ll perish in the finding of it. I won’t charge you for this little conference,” he said, displaying uncharacteristic generosity. “Disillusionment is costly enough.”

  Having tried every ploy he could think of, Gragelouth had nothing more to say. Clothahump shifted in his chair. “Do you have lodging for the night?”

  The sloth shrugged wide shoulders, looking even sadder than usual. “Many times have I had to bed down with my wagon and team.”

  “It’s late, and a ways to Lynchbany,” the turtle murmured.

  “I can make a suitable room for you here. Dimensional expansion. One of my better spells.”

  The sloth looked up, nodding gratefully. “You are as hospitable as you are discouraging. I accept.” He reached for the purse attached to his wide belt. “I will pay—”

  “Not now.” Clothahump waved magnanimously. “Even absurd tales have their uses. One must balance enlightenment with entertainment. This is fortunate for you, elsewise I might have turned you into a cockroach as penance for interrupting my sleep.” The sloth started, sleepy eyes suddenly wide. Jon-Tom was quick to reassure him.

  “Clothahump has a unique sense of humor.”

  The wizard chose not to comment as he rose and lumbered on short, stumpy legs toward the far portal. “Come, traveler, and we’ll see to your sleeping arrangements. Your body type would, I think, prefer a particularly soft bed. Or perhaps a low-slung hammock?”

  Jon-Tom rose, shaking out his cape behind him. “It’s late. I’d better be getting back.”

  No need to linger to overhear final farewells, Buncan knew. Turning in the darkness, he felt carefully along the wall as he retraced his steps. Soon he was back at the front door, which yielded silently to his touch. Out in the glade then, and moments later safely back among the friendly shadows of the silent Bellwoods. Heading home with the hope that Talea hadn’t checked his room in his absence. Even if she had, he’d prepared an elaborate and, he hoped, convincing excuse. In the event of total disbelief, the last thing she would suspect was that he’d been off spying on his father and Clothahump.

  His head was awhirl with what he’d just overheard. Too much to contain, it spilled over into ancillary hopes and dreams, washing reality aside. Not to mention common sense.

  It was news he had to share with others, and soon.

  Chapter 6

  “SO THIS GARGLEMOUTH—”

  “Gragelouth,” Buncan corrected him.

  “So ’e were a merchant from far away, an’ a sloth.” Squill dug his feet into the squishy sand of the riverbank.

  “Wot was ’e, besides slothful?”

  They were on the beach which struck
out into the current on an upper bend of the Shortstub. Vest and pants bundled nearby, Neena cavorted in the water, a sliver of brown sleekness arcing through the silver. Like any other non-otter, Buncan could only look on enviously.

  “Experienced and well-traveled,” he told Squill.

  “Wealthy?”

  “Hard to say. Sloths as a general rule aren’t very forthcoming.”

  “Don’t see many in the Bellwoods.”

  “This one had a wagon and pair.”

  “Came a long way, ’e did, to harangue mister hardshell.” Squill evicted a small freshwater crab with a toe, watched it scurry for the water. “This ’ere Grand Veritable ’e were prattlin’ about. Sounds special.”

  “Clothahump doesn’t think it exists.”

  Locating a nice palm-sized rock, Squill aimed and attempted to hit his sister the next time she broke the surface. She dodged the missile with ease. “Accordin’ to wot you’re tellin’ me, mate, ol’ beak-face spent a lot ’o time listenin’. Wot do that tell you?”

  “That Clothahump is kind to strangers.”

  “Tell me another! The old bugger’s a grump.”

  Buncan skipped a smooth stone of his own across the placid surface. He was stronger than Squill, but not as quick. “Then we’re left to consider the alternative, which is that there was some substance to what the trader was saying.”

  “Never been to the northwest,” Squill murmured thoughtfully. “Never been anywheres, really.”

  Neena had emerged from the water and was shaking herself dry, her dark-brown fur glistening with droplets. “So Clothahump’s not gonna check this story out?”

  “Doesn’t look like it,” Buncan told her. “He let this Gragelouth spend the night. I’m sure he’s already left.”

  “Wot about Jon-Tom?” She dug moss from behind one ear.

  Buncan regarded the river. “Dad’s become … settled. You know what Talea would think about him going off on some crazy quest. Or how Weegee would give it to Mudge if he tried the same.”

  “Old people,” groused Squill.

  “Better not let Mudge ’ear you say that,” Neena warned him as she methodically dried her whiskers.

  “Squill’s more than half right.” Buncan chucked another rock into the water. “They’ve all gotten tired and lazy, forgotten what adventure’s all about. They’ve become too much a part of the community.”

  “Well, I ain’t part o’ no community.” Squill rose and adjusted the angle of his cap’s feathers. “Me, I says we go after this ’ere Gragelouth and check out ’is story for ourselves. An’ if ’e’s lyin’, we’ll be able to bring back proof o’ it.”

  “Right,” agreed his sister. “Maybe ’e were just tryin’ to extort some money from ol’ drawer-guts. Or free ’elp.”

  “Clothahump doesn’t hand out free samples,” Buncan murmured.

  “Sure, ’e ain’t dumb,” Squill agreed, nodding. “Just lazy.”

  “I wonder how far to the northwest this Grand Veritable thing is supposed to lie,” Buncan said.

  “Don’t matter. We got lots o’ time.” Squill moved nearer. “You said ’e were near L’bor when he found that dyin’ mercenary. Did ’e mention if ’e were ’eaded back up that way?”

  Buncan tried to remember. “He may have said something along those lines.”

  “We know where L’bor is.” Neena was slipping into her shorts. “We could find our way. This slant-eyed bloke came to Clothahump lookin’ for ’elp, did ’e?”

  “That’s right.” Buncan also stood, brushing at the seat of his pants.

  “Well, then?” she murmured. The otters exchanged a glance. “Wot are we ’angin’ around ’ere for?”

  “D’you think he’d take us with him?”

  “Cor,” she replied, batting her eyelashes at her tall human friend, “’e’s a bleedin’ merchant! ’E don’t know nothin’ about sorceral matters. If its spellsingin’ ’elp ’e wants, it’s spellsingin’ ’elp we’ll offer ’im.”

  “Let’s get after ’im.” Squill was already heading for the trees. “The farther off ’e gets, the ’arder it’ll be for us to catch up with ’im. We’ll try the main north-south roads first.”

  “What, leave right now?” Buncan hurried to catch up to the excited otter. “Without telling our parents?”

  “Wot, you want their bloomin’ approval?” Neena came up behind him and pinched him on the butt. “We got our clothes, our weapons, your duar. We’re bloody well ready for anythin’. We can spellsing a privacy cocoon around us, keep Jon-Tom from spellsingin’ us out. That’s all we need to worry about. Besides, they’re used to us skippin’ off for a few days at a time, campin’ in the woods. They won’t even look for us for a while.”

  “The more distance we can make before they do,” Squill pointed out, “the ’arder it’ll be for them to interfere.”

  “If this Grugletooth—” Neena began.

  “Gragelouth,” Buncan patiently corrected her.

  “If ’e turns out to be nothin’ more than some country extortionist, we’ll be right back anyways. Clothahump’ll be grateful for the confirmation.”

  “Always wanted to see L’bor,” Squill murmured.

  “What’ll we do for money?” Buncan wanted to know.

  “We’ll live by our wits, mate. That’s wot Mudge always said ’e did.”

  “Your dad’s an inveterate liar.”

  “I know. It’s one o’ ’is most endearin’ traits. Come on.”

  “You said this sloth ’ad a team o’ two an’ a wagon. If it’s much o’ a team ’e might be movin’ fast.” Neena was bursting with confidence and energy. “No matter. We’ll catch up with ’im some’ow.”

  Discreet queries revealed that the merchant had indeed passed through Lynchbany that very morning and had been observed heading north out of the town. That meant he was already a day ahead of them.

  “We ain’t gonna catch a wagon on foot,” Squill pointed out. “Bloody ’ell! I was ’oping ’e’d ’ole up ’ere in town for a while.”

  “We’ll ’ave to find transportation.” His sister was nodding in agreement.

  “How? We have hardly any money,” Buncan pointed out.

  A twinkle showed in Neena’s gaze. “I’m the daughter o’ the inimitable Mudge, an’ Squill ’ere, sad to say, is me brother. We’ve spent all our lives listenin’ to Mudge’s stones. You don’t do that an’ not pick up a smidgee o’ practical information ’ere an’ there.”

  Buncan glanced nervously up and down the busy street on which they stood conversing. “This is awfully close to home. Just being here makes it hard to stay inconspicuous.”

  “Cor, mate, we ’aven’t even started to push things.” Squill indicated a comfortable empty half-barrel in a nearby alleyway. “You just ’ave a seat an’ wait ’ere. Neena an’ I will be back shortly.”

  “Just don’t do anything obvious!” Buncan shouted after them. He doubted that they heard, or if they did, would pay his words any heed.

  The pair of four-legged riding lizards the otters found were strong and willing. They left Lynchbany quickly behind and soon found themselves once more among the dense groves of the Bellwoods, heading north at a laudable pace.

  Buncan couldn’t keep from repeatedly glancing back over his shoulder, but no pursuit appeared on the smooth dirt road behind them. Squill and Neena rode back-to-back on the other animal’s saddle.

  “If the stable owner catches us first, he’ll make hides out of us before we can explain.”

  “Don’t be such an old granny-cakes.” Neena smoothed down the fur around her muzzle. “As soon as we catch up with Gragelouth an’ ’ire ’ourselves on with ’im we’ll let these two skinks go. They’ll find their way back, an’ their owner’ll just think they slipped their bloody tethers.”

  Clinging to the narrow reins, Buncan considered his horse-sized, yellow-and-blue-striped mount. “I didn’t know that skinks had a homing instinct.”

  Neena waved absently. “Well, they’
ll find their way back somewhere.” Her own mount lurched slightly and she grabbed hold of one of the long saddle’s multiple pommels. The saddle was designed to accommodate as wide a variation of backsides as possible. It was not particularly constructed with otters in mind. Or humans.

  “Anyway,” Squill was saying, “they ’ave to catch us first. If an’ when they do, if we ain’t got the goods in question in our possession, they can’t prove a bleedin’ thing. Relax, mate. Nobody saw us.”

  Buncan did his best to comply.

  They rode most of the night, catching a few hours’ sleep beneath the branches of a huge old Belltree whose leaves chimed only at the low end of the scale. Like their daytime counterparts the transparent butterflies, glass moths flitted among nocturnal blossoms, the light of the waxing moon shining through their transparent tinted wings and filtering starlight through living stained glass. A pair of owls soared past overhead, making for L’bor. Not searching for him, Buncan mused. Messengers, most likely, or just a young couple looking for a nice empty tree in which to make out.

  The otters were up before the sun. Their energy was incredible, though if the mood took them they could also sleep for a day and a half.

  By mid morning there was still no sign of pursuit, and Squill had paused to point out fresh ruts in the road.

  “See that?” He clutched at his mount’s reins, steadying the big lizard. “The merchant’s wagon.”

  “How do you know that?” Buncan asked him. “This is the main road from Lynchbany to L’bor. Plenty of wagons pass this way.”

  “Ain’t seen any,” Neena countered. “’Tis the slow season.”

  “We’ll know right soon.” Squill spurred his mount on, and Buncan hurried to follow.

  Were their parents missing them yet? he wondered. Following breakfast they’d taken their best shot at a privacy spell. In theory Jon-Tom shouldn’t be able to track them now with magic. In theory. He shrugged. There was little more they could do to cover their tracks.

  Legend said that his father and Mudge had helped stop the Plated Folk at the Jo-Troom Pass. Hard to believe it was the same person who spent much of his time puttering around the family tree, fixing leaky plumbing and barbecuing fish on the lawn out back. Could that person break through the straightforward solidity of a privacy spell?