neetha Napew - Son Of Spellsinger

“Mudge the otter, anyway.” Gragelouth turned contemplative. “I have heard that name elsewhere, though usually in connection with extensive debts long owed or assorted ingenious moral outrages.”

Neena nodded. “That sounds like Dad right enough.”

“Yes, I know of his reputation. Mudge the great thief, Mudge the great drunk, Mudge the great wencher, Mudge the great . . .”

‘Well, at least the operative adjective is still ‘great,’“ Squill muttered.

“You have daring and guts,” Gragelouth admitted. “I wonder how extensive is your quotient of courage.”

“As big as any bloody merchant’s,” Squill shot back testily.

“Your inexperience in matters sorceral and otherwise still concerns me,” he readily admitted, “but as is clearly evident I have no army of wizards clamoring to accompany me. There are occasions when youth can work to an advantage. So . . . I will allow you to accompany me until such time as your presence becomes more of a burden than an asset.”

Buncan couldn’t repress a pleased smile. “I hope we never give you reason to regret your decision, merchant.”

“Right, then!” chirped Neena. “ Tis on to L’bor.”

“L’bor?” Gragelouth made room for Buncan on the bench seat and for the others behind. “We do not go to L’bor.”

Buncan eyed him. “But this is the road to L’bor. That’s where you were heading.”

“To seek wizardry aid and advice. I now have, the Great Counter watch over me, you three to supply that. So there is no reason to waste time journeying to L’bor. We will procure final supplies at Timswitty, which is nearer, before striking out northwestward.”

“Northwest.” Squill’s brows scrunched together. “That means crossin’ the Muddletup Moors.”

“That is correct.” Gragelouth was watching him closely. Watching all of them.

Squill spat over the side of the wagon. “Piece o’ carp. A little lousy weather, the projected mental murmurin’s o’ some discontented fungi, maybe an ‘umble but interestin’ ogre or two. We’ve ‘eard all about the place from Mudge an’ Jon-Tom. They made it through. So will we.”

“Bravado is useful when it translates into assurance and not foolhardy overconfidence.” He glanced at Buncan. “Do you have money of your own?”

“Very little.”

The merchant nodded resignedly. “My resources are limited. Now it seems they are to be stretched still further. We will manage somehow. When pressed we have my wagon for shelter, though it will be crowded with four of us.” He shuffled the reins in his hands. “We should move on. Great mysteries await resolution.” He chucked the reins and the wagon trundled forward. Squill and Neena settled themselves on some cushions behind the bench seat.

“You hope to capture, or acquire, this Grand Veritable?” Buncan asked their host.

“Nothing so estimable,” replied the merchant modestly. “I wish merely to ascertain the truth of gallant Juh Phil’s story. Yes, when that moment arrives it will be good to have three young, strong companions by my side.”

Buncan repressed a grin. “You forget that I overheard the whole conversation.”

Gragelouth looked slightly abashed. “Well, there would be nothing immoral in making a profit as well.”

Tack strained and creaked as the two dray lizards increased their pace, hissing in protest at Gragelouth’s insistent reins.

Buncan settled himself as comfortably as he could on the padded wooden seat. They were on their way! This must be how his father used to feel when starting off on one of his inimitable adventures. Though if he and Clothahump were right there wouldn’t be any adventure. Just a lot of hard, difficult traveling.

At least it was a. journey. At his age that was adventure enough in itself. Everything they saw from now on would be new and different from everything which had been seen before, and therefore exciting. Different if not startling, stimulating if not overawing.

From their excited chatter behind him he could tell that Squill and Neena felt the same way. With the three of them working together he was confident there was nothing they couldn’t handle, no obstacle they could fail to overcome.

This was a common enough feeling among young men his age, so he could hardly be faulted for thinking like an idiot.

“Drive on, Gragelouth! We’ll find this Grand Veritable, if it exists, and toss it in your wagon like any other piece of goods. Maybe it’ll be worth a few gold pieces.”

“All things are possible to those whom life has not yet disenchanted,” the merchant murmured condescendingly without looking up from his team. “You are not afraid, then?”

“Afraid? Of what?”

“Of meeting Juh Phit’s fate; Of horrors and obstacles unknown yet to be overcome. Of what the Grand Veritable itself may be or be capable of.”

“It’s only a thing,” Buncan replied manfully. “I’ve never yet encountered a thing worth fearing. Besides,” he finished aiMfy as he crossed his legs and leaned back, “if it gives us any trouble we’ll just spellsing it away.”

“Bloody right, mate!” Squill barked belligerently behind nun. “We’ll conjure the bleedin’ wotever it is back into thin air! We can do oversize ‘ammers. Why not a Grand Veritable?”

“Whatever it is indeed,” murmured Gragelouth. “We may hope to survive long enough to find out.”

From the undergrowth several pairs of eyes watched the wagon disappear over the next rise in the road. Their owners were exhausted and battered, scratched and torn from their wild flight through the brush, worn out from avoiding the crush of the thaumaturgical hammer. Some studied that apparition warily where it rested high up in the trees. It had not moved for some tune, but where the necromantic arts were concerned nothing, absolutely nothing, could be taken for granted.

“Pulp their eyes!” chattered a ringtail. “Who knew the interfering ones were spellsingers?”

“None could have foreseen it,” insisted the coati who led them. His eyes flashed almost as brightly as the diamond in his left canine. “Children! Are you all to be put to flight by children?”

“Not me,” said another ringtail. “Not by cubs of any species.”

One of the assembled raccoons spoke up. “Sorcery invoked by children is still sorcery, and any sensible person fears that.”

“They were lucky, that’s all.” The coati gestured toward the hanging hammer. “Did you not see how after putting us to flight it turned on its conjurers and tried to kill them? They are inexperienced and callow.”

“I’m not interested in what it did after it tried to kill us,” growled another raccoon. “I saw what it did to poor Jachay. He was my friend. Now he’s a smear on the ground.”

“Aye,” said a ringtail. “That’s sorcery of a kind I’ve no desire to encounter again. Certainly not for what poor swag a humble merchant’s wagon might contain.”

The coati raged among his followers. “They caught us by surprise, that’s all! A little stealth, a little planning next time, arid we’ll take them before they can sing up so much as a blue wasp!” His voice dropped ominously. “Hard to spellsing with your throat cut.”

“And if we fail?” the ringtail wanted to know. “What then? Will assurances and excuses deliver us?”

“Me, I’m not going to chance finding out.” Hefting his war ax, one of the reluctant raccoons turned and stalked off toward the road, not in pursuit of the vanished wagon but south, toward Lynchbany.

“Go then, Wrochek!” the coati yelled after him. “Flee to the safety of a Thieves’ Hall and a protected bed.”

“Sounds good to me,” confessed one of the ringtails. He promptly broke into a trot to catch up with the raccoon.