neetha Napew - Son Of Spellsinger

The venerable turtle was seated in his special chair, while Jon-Tom sprawled on the long couch beneath the window. Seated at the other end was a hirsute stranger, a sloth by tribe. Their kind was uncommon in the Bellwoods, preferring as they did warmer, more southerly climes.

This one wore a thin vest of what looked like metal foil. Even a hasty glance was enough to show that it was too flimsy to be any kind of armor. The long-legged pants of gray cotton were something of a surprise, but the open-toed sandals seemed appropriate. Though severely trimmed, the claws on the visitor’s hands and feet were still formidable. Clearly alert and attentive, the visitor nonetheless gave the appearance of one half asleep, an unfortunate and unavoidable characteristic of his kind. His words were carefully chosen, and no one would mistake his natural slowness of speech for stupidity.

He wore an extravagant amount of delicate gold jewelry.

Jon-Tom sipped from a goblet while Clothahump leaned on the sturdy cane he favored lately and scrutinized the visitor through his thick glasses.

“I have done as you requested, traveler Gragelouth,” the wizard was saying. “I have roused myself from deep slumber and, since you insisted you would relate your tale to no fewer man two witnesses of sorceral competence, caused to be brought hence my junior partner.” (Clothahump always stuck in that “junior,” Buncan reflected sourly.) The wizard leaned slightly but threateningly forward.

“All I have to add is that what you have to say had better be worth all this inconvenience. After a few hundred years, one begins to value one’s time.”

The sloth seemed anxious though unintimidated. “I assure you I would not waste your time, Master.” He looked at Jon-Tom. “As I have informed your colleague, I am a traveling merchant, dealing mostly in domestic utensils and household goods.”

“Saw your wagon and team out back,” Jon-Tom commented.

Gragelouth nodded. “I buy and sell anything, but that is my area of specialization.”

“Enough personal history,” grumbled Clothahump. “Your story.”

“Certainly.” The sloth looked thoughtful as he began to reminisce. “I was far to the north of here, traveling a back road in the vicinity of L’bor, when a singular sight happened to catch my eye. It appeared to be an injured individual lying forsaken by the side of the road.” He sniffed.

“You can imagine that I was reluctant to stop. It is a common and well-known ploy of bandits to set out one of their own as bait, decorated to appear damaged, to attract the attention of the naturally solicitous, whereupon when the would-be Samaritan halts to render assistance, the others fall upon and rob him, or worse.

“My outfit, however, is not built for speed, and I would have had little hope of outrunning a band of determined dacoits anyway. As this solitary individual’s injuries struck me as quite real, I halted and went to render what assistance I could.”

“That was noble of you.” Jon-Tom mused privately that the merchant might just as easily have had in mind the same thought as a band of passing robbers.

“His name was Juh Phit, a fox by typus, and his desperate condition was due not to harm suffered in battle but to age, starvation, and exposure. He was still alive when I found him. Weak and exhausted as he was, he still attempted to draw the sword slung at his side when I approached.

“Now, I am no fighter, Masters, and I started to pull back. When he saw that he beckoned me close, and related to me the gist of the tale I now pass on to you.

“He had been long afoot and had come stumbling all that way down out of the high mountains to the northwest of L’bor. Where precisely he had been he could not say, being no geographer or navigator himself. But he had found something up there, and his description of the exact location was marked by the kind of detail one masters when memorizing a field of battle, for I soon found out that he was a mercenary by trade.

“This lifelong professional soldier had encountered something which had frightened him badly. So anxious was he to flee its environs that he lost both his mount and his kit in his rush to escape, and it was only by some miracle that he had half run, half wandered as far southeast as L’bor, shunning all who crossed his path.

“One more day, Masters, and he would have made it to the outskirts of that northern town, which, he confided to me, was his intended destination. But his strength had at last deserted him, his body had played him false, and he had fallen helpless where I encountered him, at which point he was nearer death than L’bor.

“I comforted him and gave him water, but he was too weak to take food.”

“So what did he find in the northwestern mountains?” In Jon-Tom’s eyes was the hint of an old gleam. “Treasure? Some fabulous forgotten city?”

“Nothing like that,” said the merchant. “I do not pretend to understand all that he said. Only that what he found had been compelling and terrifying enough to drive him to that desperate condition. I have discussed mis with others whom I knew or encountered on my journey here, and if anything their ignorance on the subject exceeds my own.

“Only one, who had had some minor dealings with matters sorceral, suggested that I seek you out. This I have done because this dead soldier’s tale has become something of an obsession with me, and I desire deeply to understand it. Also, it was in a sense all that this unfortunate fox had to bequeath, the only other thing of value left in his possession being his oft-used sword.”

“Which you have with you?” Jon-Tom inquired.

The sloth looked away. “Uh, no. I hocked it. I am after all a merchant, and I have to live.”

“This thing he encountered?” said Qothahump impatiently.

Gragelouth turned gratefully to the wizard. “He called it ‘The Grand Veritable.’“

Over the years Duncan had seen the wizard Clothahump deal with much that was marvelous and inexplicable, from conjuring up entire buildings to transmuting gold into lead (the latter not being a spell that was overmuch in demand, but one which the wizard often performed for practice). In all that time he had never seen the turtle react as he did at that moment.

Clothahump jerked backward so sharply that it snapped the minor retention spell that held his heavy glasses on his beak. With a grunt he picked them off the floor and carefully set them back in place. As for Jon-Tom, he could only look on in bewilderment.

When he had fully recovered, the wizard spoke slowly and with great certitude. “There is no such thing as the Grand Veritable. It’s nothing more than a widespread rumor among those of us in the Profession. An old rumor, but a rumor nonetheless. It does not exist. Some wish that it did, but wishing and reality are infrequent companions.”

“I know I never heard of it,” Jon-Tom added.

Clothahump squinted at him. “You would not, nor is it something you’d be likely to encounter in your spellsinging. It is not a subject to spark casual conversation.”

Gragelouth seemed hesitant to comment, perhaps a bit taken aback by the vehemence of the great wizard’s reaction. “I do not know whether it exists or not. I only repeat to you the tale of the dying mercenary. Real or not, it cost him his life.”

“It’s not unknown for individuals weakened by exposure and its consequences to suffer from delusions,” Jon-Tom pointed out.

The sloth favored the spellsinger with his inherently mournful expression and perpetually sad eyes. “I may be ignorant in matters thaumaturgical, sir, but I flatter myself that I am a good judge of people. It is a consequence of being a successful trader. Nor have I suffered the companionship, however brief, of many on the verge of death. That confessed, I am convinced those who are about to depart this plane of existence have no reason to lie to a stranger.”