neetha Napew - Son Of Spellsinger

“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 midmoming 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 then- 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?

He chucked the reins and the big skink hissed slightly, turning its narrow blindered head to look back at him.

“Come on, pick it up,” he told the uncomprehending animal. “We want to overtake this merchant before another night falls.” With poor grace the lizard increased its pace.

Evening was threatening to make its appearance when Squill suddenly brought his own mount to an abrupt halt. Buncan drew alongside, stopped. “What is it? Something the matter?”

“Don’t you ‘ear it?”

“I ‘ear it.” Neena was leaning forward and to one side, trying to see past her brother.

“Well, I don’t,” snapped Buncan.

“Why not? Your ears are bigger than ours.”

“But not as sharp. Above or below the water.”

“You’re always underwater, mate,” Squill told him. But affectionately.

Buncan followed the otters’ lead as they dismounted and secured their skinks to a nearby tree. Just as they had for years, they used the undergrowth to conceal their movements as they advanced. Only, Buncan knew that this time Squill and Neena weren’t playing. Maybe his hearing wasn’t as good as theirs, but he was equally adept at avoiding twigs and dry leaves.

It didn’t take long before he, too, could hear what had attracted Squill’s attention: many voices shouting and yelling. Only a couple were deep enough to suggest size. The rest were fairly high-pitched.

They came to a place where the forest thinned and they could see the road again. Stopped to one side was the merchant’s wagon. Thanks to his well-honed powers of memory and observation, Buncan was able to recognize it instantly from the single brief glimpse he’d had of it parked behind Clothahump’s tree.

Also, there was a large spellcharged sign on the side which periodically flashed in bright canary-yellow letters: GRAGELOUTH—MERCHANT & TRADER

The wagon rested on four thick-spoked, brightly painted wooden wheels. A single door interrupted the smooth lines of the stem. There was a built-in ladder which allowed access to the roof, and a pair of stairs bolted beneath the doorway. Pots, pans, and other household goods dangled from hempen and wire leaders like misshapen fruit. Two muscular, squat-bodied dray lizards yoked side by side stood placidly in front of the wagon, scratching at their blinders and sampling the ground with their flattened pink tongues.

Though the wagon faced away from them, they could see the merchant seated on the forebench. Hatless, his thick gray coat showed evidence of recent trimming. The long fur beneath his arms swayed as he argued with those who had surrounded him.

Standing near the front of the team and holding the harness of the lead lizard was a massive masked figure. The mask was natural, for the individual was a spectacled bear. He wore long pants, a dull hazel shirt, and a heavy leather cap. His size made him prominent among the sword- and ax-armed ringtail cats and raccoons who comprised the majority of the gang.

A tall, lithe, rather rakishly clad coatimundi stood nearest the wagon, gesturing animatedly in the merchant’s direction with a thin rapier. They could see Gragelouth flinch whenever the blade flicked too close. Brass studs glistened among the coati’s attire. Even at a distance Buncan could make out the diamond that sparkled in one of his prominent canines.

“Wot a bleedin’ marvelous opportunity!” Neena whispered. “We can rescue the silly sod an’ ingratiate ourselves to ‘im forever. ‘E’ll ‘ave to take us on.” She drew her short sword and took a step forward.

Buncan hastened to restrain her. “Wait a minute!” He raised his eyes above the brush line. “There’s. .half a dozen raccoons and ringtails, the coati, and the bear. There’s only three of us, and the bear’s a lot bigger than I am.”

“Righty-ho, mate,” agreed Squill cheerfully. “Them’s fair odds, they are.”

“Are you crazy? You’ve inherited Mudge’s bravado along with his lack of judgment. If we go charging out there we’re gonna get ourselves stomped. Don’t lose sight of why we’re here.” One of the ringtails was now peering curiously in their direction, and Buncan hurriedly ducked back down into the vegetation.