neetha Napew - Son Of Spellsinger

Jon-Tom waved off the rationalization. “Okay, so this Juh Phit believed he’d encountered something he called the Grand Veritable. That doesn’t mean he actually did so.”

“I am of course in no position to dispute that.” The merchant’s voice was as soft as his pelt.

“Even people of good intentions sometimes repeat falsehoods so often they come to think of mem as truths,” Jon-Tom added. “Real estate brokers, for example.”

“I can only say that I received the dying testament of this soldier Juh Phit, and that I believe in what he said.”

“Something so dangerous, so insidious, could not exist,” Clothahump was mumbling. “When I think of the damage it could cause if it did, the havoc it could wreak, I shudder inside my shell.” He leaned back in the chair, the willow springs creaking beneath his weight.

“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 harmmphed. “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 Veritabletproperly.”

“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, Duncan 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 Lynehbany,” 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?”