by neetha Napew
“Me neither,” added Neena. “Wot about you, Buncan? Can’t you think of anything?”
“I’m not the singer.”
“But you could give us the words!” she pleaded. “A suggestion, a direction we could take. Anythin’ !”
“I don’t know anything about hounds,” he whispered desperately. “I spent all my time learning how to play the duar, not make up—” He broke off, remembering unexpectedly. “There is this old song. I remember Jon-Tom used to sing it to me when I was young. Real young. A baby song. It never made any sense to me, but it might fit this situation. A little. It’s all I can think of.”
“No time for debate,” Squill pointed out. “Try it.”
Buncan’s fingers rested tensely on the duar. “It’s no rap,” he warned them.
Neena smiled wolfishly. “We’ll take care o’ that. Just give us some bleedin’ words we can work with.”
“It goes like this.” He proceeded to whisper what he could remember of the saccharine little tune.
Squill looked doubtful. “If you don’t mind me sayin’ so, the tone ain’t exactly sorceral.”
“Rap it,” he urged them, “and let me play. We’ve got to try something.” He indicated the leader, who was winding up his litany.
“ . . . And I,” the thick-set creature concluded, “am the hound of the Baskervilles.”
Buncan frowned. “I may have heard of you.” The hound looked pleased. “So our reputation reaches even beyond the Moors. That is gratifying, but not unexpected. The peculiar mists and winds of the Muddletup transport much that is within without.” He raised his sword. “Now that you know who will be dining upon you, we can begin. It is time to substitute butchery for conversation. But tremble not. We are not brutal. We will make this as quick as possible. When you have determined that resistance is not only foolish but painful, simply put down your arms and lay your heads out parallel to the earth. I will do the honors myself. My colleagues tend to sloppiness.”
Buncan put up a hand to forestall the hound’s approach. “Wait! A last song before dying. If you would be thought generous, grant us this one final amusement.”
The hound frowned. “Music does not do well here. The air weighs it down. But if you prefer that to battle, have at it.”
“Oi, thanks,” said Squill. “Me, I’d rather go out with a song.” He set his bow and arrow aside.
“Be quick about it,” the hound grumbled. “My stomach complains.”
Buncan began to play. Recalling the lyrics he had supplied, the otters joined in, transposing and transforming, engendering a rap unlike anything they’d tried before.
“ ‘Ow much, ‘ow much, ‘ow much? ‘Ow much is that doggie, that one there Can’t compare, to the one over there In the window, dude, in the window, where You can’t compare any one you knowed Before the war, to the one in the window. Don’t you see; ‘ow much is she?”
The hounds looked at once bored and baffled as Buncan piled chord upon chord, uplifting the strange lyrics, providing them with an irresistible forward thrust that would no doubt have astonished the composers of the original ditty.
Nothing happened.
No giant otherdimensional carnivorous canine materialized to terrify the hounds into submission, no befanged beasts oozed up out of the muck to attack them individually. Nor did the words result in the conjuration of some ensorceled offensive-minded device like a giant hammer.
“Put your hearts into it!” Buncan hissed angrily at his companions. Neena responded with an obscene gesture born of desperation as much as frustration.
This is it, he thought tiredly to himself. Not only are we destined to go no farther, we hardly got started. Put a few common forest bandits to flight and you think you can take on the world. Then- demise would be as abrupt as it would be degrading.
A purplish-red mist began to form between the wagon and the leader of the hounds.
The dray lizards started in harness, hissing and spitting wildly, forcing the startled Gragelouth to work his reins to maintain control. The hound hopped backward, thrusting his sword out defensively in front of him. Nervous mutterings sounded from the members of his band.
“Keep singing, no matter what it is, keep singing!” Buncan urged his friends. The otters needed no encouragement, plying variation upon variation on the now fully possessed melody. In their own way they were as entranced as the hounds.
What was it they were spellsinging forth?
The mist swirled aimlessly, as if searching for a seed, a core, to fix upon. At last it began to coalesce. Silhouettes appeared, gradually congealing into shapes that boasted both density and weight.
They flashed no armor, wielded no weapons. In fact, they were hardly clad at all, and what they did wear was designed more to flaunt than to conceal. Buncan counted a good dozen of the ghostly figures, precisely one for each member of the voracious circle.
While not all were hounds, each was flatteringly representative of the canine persuasion. Even his inexperienced eyes found their attire of silks and satins provocative.
In addition to which, each and every one of them was fully in heat.
The effect the dozen seductive bitches had on the assembled hounds was nothing short of apocalyptic. Buncan watched as the first let his sword drop from his benumbed fingers. Wearing an utterly stupefied expression, he stumbled forward into the waiting arms of the bitch nearest him. She embraced bun with the ease and skill of an experienced professional.
The leader made an effort to save his distracted band, raging among them with words and blows. Then a tall, immaculately coiffed Afghan slunk forward to give him a gentle chuck under his chin. His sword rose but his gaze descended. His nose twitched convulsively, at which point he had no choice but to switch weapons.
“Get moving!” Buncan whispered tersely to the mesmerized merchant without slowing his playing.
Gragelouth looked blank for a moment, then chucked the reins with becoming fervor. Tack creaked and groaned as the lizards picked up their feet. The wagon trundled forward.
No one jumped in their path or made any effort to interfere with them.
Leaning out of the bench seat and looking backward, Buncan thought he saw the hound of the Baskervilles trying to break free of the orgy. The wild-eyed leader went down under the weight of not one but two of the expensive bitches-of-the-evening Buncan and the otters had called forth. He did not reemerge.
As they fled unhindered into the vastness of the Moors the travelers heard one last time the collective baying of the hounds, but that hitherto mournful echo sounded now rather more enthusiastic than threatening.
Only when they were well away did Buncan put his duar aside, wondering as he did so what would happen when the seductive spirits he and the otters had called forth ceased their frenetic ministrations and finally demanded payment for their services. He was certain they would, for the lyrics of the spellsong had been forthright in their mention of price.
Squill clapped him on the back. “That were bloody brilliant, mate! Did you see their faces? Be buggered if I don’t envy ‘em.”
Neena simply shook her head in disgust. “I’m surprised you didn’t join in, bro’.”
Squill’s nose wrinkled. “The timin’s ‘ardly right. When they finish, that lot’s gonna be even ‘ungrier than before.”
“I didn’t have any idea it would work.” Buncan protested modestly. “That wasn’t exactly the kind of cost-related result I would have expected, either. But it was the only ‘hound’-related song I could mink of at the time.” He shrugged. “That’s spellsinging for you. By the way, you two were amazing.”
“Well, o’ course,” Neena agreed without hesitation.
“It was just a baby song,” Buncan added.
“Childhood imagery contains much power,” Gragelouth commented. “I must apologize.”
“For what?” Buncan wanted to know.
“For ever doubting your spellsinging abilities. It is evident now that your youth is not overmuch of a meliorating
factor.”
“Beg pardon?” said Squill. His sister cuffed him.
“We got lucky,” Buncan confessed. “We might just as easily be someone’s dinner.”
“Do not make light of what you have done. Your talents are undeniable.” For the first time since Buncan had set eyes on him, Gragelouth looked almost happy.
“ ‘E’s right, Buncoos.” Neena leaned forward and put her short arms around him. Her whiskers tickled the back of his neck. “OF Clothabump may be more experienced, and Jon-Tom slicker, but we three are the greatest spellsingin’ team that ever was.”
“Let’s not get carried away by a couple of lucky successes,” Buncan chided her. But he had to admit he felt good about their prospects.
“So we’ve proved ourselves to you, droopy-lips?” Neena prodded the merchant.
“We have barely begun.” Gragelouth tried to avoid her teasing finger. He didn’t like to be touched, Buncan had noticed. “There will doubtless be other dangers to deal with, other confrontations.”
“Maybe not,” said Squill cheerily. “Maybe it’ll be smooth swimmin’ all the way to the northwest. ‘Ell, we’re about through the Moors and we’ve ‘andled not one but two lot o’ bandits on the way.”
“Perhaps you are right.” The merchant sat a little straighter on his bench. “Though it is not in my nature, perhaps I should be more assured.”
“Do wonders for your social life, mate.” Squill put a paw on the sloth’s shoulder. “You just tend to the drivin’ and we’ll take care o’ any nasties that ‘ave the nerve to cross us.”
Gragelouth nodded slowly. “I only hope that your skills ripen as rapidly as your presumption, river-runner.”
CHAPTER 8
For a time it seemed as if squill was right to be so confident. The rest of their journey through the Muddletup Moors proceeded without incident, marred only by a damaged wheel that the merchant quickly and efficiently repaired. As they pushed on, Duncan played frequently and the otters sang to keep the enervating atmosphere of the Moors at bay. Of the hounds there was no sign, nor did anything more inimical than a bellicose toadstool attempt to hinder their progress.
Eventually they emerged from the dour surroundings of the Moors onto a wide, lightly vegetated plain that was different from any country Buncan or the otters had ever seen. Having grown up in the lush confines of the Bellwoods, they were immediately intrigued by the stunted trees and dense, dry-leaved bushes and grasses that covered the land.
“Oi, is this the desert?” Neena asked wonderingly as the wagon rattled down the barely visible track. “I’ve ‘eard about the desert, I ‘ave.” Behind them a low bank of permanent, purulent fog obscured the western reaches of the Moors. Bright sunshine had banished the last psychic echoes of manic-depressive fungi from (heir minds. It was a pleasure to let down their mental guard.
Pirouetting breezes swept blue-stained dirt into occasional dust devils. Broad-winged flying lizards sculpted predatory patterns in the air, searching for smaller, gravity-bound prey below. Slim, hasty creatures with multiple legs scurried out of the wagon’s path to vanish down camouflaged holes and burrows.
“No, this isn’t the desert,” Gragelouth patiently explained. “There’s far too much water present, and the abundance of plants reflects that. I would call this upland scrubland.”
He nodded in the direction of high, chapparal-covered mesas. Where flowing water had eroded the hillsides multicolored sandstone sparkled in the sun like the layers of a coronation cake. “Pretty, that.”
Buncan agreed, and would have enjoyed spending a day or two exploring such country, but they had no time to linger. In any event, the otters did not share his enthusiasm for casual sight-seeing. The absence of running water made them nervous.
The landscape changed little over the next few days. Desert it might not be, but it was more than hot enough for everyone. Fortunately, water in greater quantities soon showed itself in the small streams that ran down from the mesa tops, and in shaded pools deep enough to offer the otters an occasional reinvigorating plunge.
“Doesn’t anyone live out here?” Buncan asked the question of their guide on the fourth day out from the Moors. The wagon squeaked in counterpoint to his query.
“There are tales of communities,” Gragelouth replied, “but this is little-known country. Civilized folk keep to the Bellwoods, or travel south to the Tailaroam and thence down to the Glittergeist or up the river to Polastrindu.”
“Don’t see why anyone would choose to live ‘ere.” Neena sniffed distastefully as she studied the uninviting terrain. “Too dry, too isolated, wot?”
“Some people prefer isolation,” the merchant told her. “I have traded with such.”
“Each to their own tastes, I suppose.”
“This track we’re following must run somewhere,” her brother observed sagely, “little used though it is.”
Sure enough, not another day had passed before they topped a low rise between boulders that gave way to a view of a verdant valley. Two broad streams meandered through well-tended fields, which surrounded a town of surprising dimensions.
Behind a smooth-faced white wall with a curved crest towered buildings of three and four stories, all plastered and painted the same stark, reflective white. Under the midday sun the city shone so brightly that the approaching travelers had to shield their eyes against it. Gragelouth in particular suffered considerably.
Like everything else, the sight only served to inspire the otters. “Where’s this, or maybe I should say, wot’s this?” Squill’s short tail twitched excitedly.
“I do not know,” the merchant admitted. “As I have already said, I have never been this way before.”
“Sure is well kept-up,” Buncan commented as they followed the faint wagon track toward the nearest city gate. He was well aware that the otters were avidly eyeing the nearest of the two main streams. “I don’t know about anyone else, but I could do with a swim.”
Tentative as always, Gragelouth pursed thick lips as he considered the prospect. “The local farmers may not like people bathing in their irrigation water.”
“Chill out,” Squill admonished him. “We’ll turn off before we reach the city wall and slip in somewhere upstream. No one’ll see us.”
“They may not mind. The community looks quite prosperous,” Gragelouth had to admit.
As Squill surmised, their brief swim passed unnoticed. All were in high good spirits as they dried themselves in the sun while the merchant drove the wagon back toward the city. There were numerous tracks to follow now. Farmers’ wagons, Buncan thought.
As they approached a city gate other vehicles could be seen entering and leaving: wagons piled high with produce or supplies, two-wheeled carts, riders on individual mounts, preoccupied pedestrians. As was typical, Buncan was taller than any of them. His unusual height, he knew, was a gift of his father’s otherworldly origins.
It was Squill who first noticed the anomaly.
“Crikey,” he exclaimed in surprise as they drew near enough to distinguish individuals. “They’re all bloody rodents!”
It was true. The city was populated entirely by rats, mice, squirrels, and their relations. There were no canines, felines, primates, or ungulates; no representatives of any of the other great tribes of the warm-blooded. Such species isolation was unprecedented in their experience. It was almost as if the inhabitants had chosen to segregate themselves. Despite the city’s evident prosperity, Buncan knew that such a sequestered population would inevitably make for cultural famine.
Back in the civilized world the representatives of the rodentia had often been looked down upon, until they had helped to turn the tide against the Plated Folk at the battle of the Jo-Troom Pass. So it was most unexpected to find so many of them living like this, isolated from the great and wondrous diversity of the wider world.
Neena was standing on the cushions back of the bench. “Look at them. No expressions o’ individuality at all.”
Inde
ed, regardless of tribe everyone mey saw was clad entirely in white sheets or robes. These extended in unbroken fashion from head to foot save for slits for ears and tail, and an oval opening for the face. White sandals shod feet regardless of size or shape. Within this all-pervasive whiteness there was room for some variation, with buttons, belts, lace, and other trim of exquisite detail and design providing the only distincti veness in the absence of color. In addition to then: voluminous robes, some additionally wore masks or scarves of embroidered white, perhaps to keep out the dust while working in the fields, Buncan surmised.
More notable even than the unvarying whiteness was the immaculate condition of the city and its citizens. Buncan could not find a spot of mud, a chunk of decaying plaster, or a blighted structure anywhere as they passed through the unbarred gate into the city proper. A pan- of squat capybara guards followed the wagon with their eyes but made no move to confront it. Then- ceremonial pikes were fashioned of bircli wood tipped with blades of sharpened milk quartz.
A warren of structures began immediately inside the gate. Modest or excessive, all were plastered or painted white. Awnings of white cloth shaded small street-side stalls or upper-story windows framed with intricately carved white shutters. The street down which they plodded was cleaner than the tables of most taverns in Lynchbany.
“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.”