neetha Napew - Son Of Spellsinger

“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.”

“Be good to sleep in a real bed,” Squill commented, “not to mention ‘avin’ sometbin’ decent to eat for a change.”

Gragelouth brought the wagon to a halt before a two-story structure with no windows in the upper floor. Several other vehicles and then- reptiles were tethered nearby. A large, powerful monitor lizard hissed but made room for the newcomers.

“I am a merchant by trade,” he responded with some dignity. “Not a cook.” He climbed down from the bench seat.

Locals hurrying up and down the street on business stared unabashedly, their snouts and whiskers protruding from their hooded attire. Duncan dismounted to stand next to Gragelouth. He could overhear but not decipher the whispered comments of the passersby.

“Crikey, maybe they’re afraid of us.” Squill rested one paw on the hilt of his short sword.

“No, I do not get that feeling. It is something else.” Gragelouth spoke as he considered the building before them. “I wonder if we are welcome here, or if it might not be better to move on.”

“Should be able to find out quickly enough.” Duncan placed himself directly in the path of a three-foot-tall mouse with a peculiar bushy tail. It halted uncertainly, gazing up at the towering human.

“What place is this? We’re strangers to mis city,” Duncan hoped he sounded firm but friendly.

The mouse gestured with a tiny hand on which reposed half a dozen exquisitely fashioned rings of white gold.

“Why, this is Hygria of the Plains, primate. Now please, let me pass.” He looked anxiously, not at Duncan, but at those of his fellow citizens who had gathered in front of the windowless building to watch.

Duncan didn’t move. “A moment of your time, sir. We need to avail ourselves of your city’s hospitality. Can you tell us where we might find suitable food and lodging?”

The mouse swallowed, turned. “From this point inward the streets grow narrow. You will have to leave your animals and vehicle here. As to your personal needs, you might try the Inn of the All-Scouring Deatitudes. It sometimes will accommodate travelers. Second avenue on your left.” The rodent hesitated. “Though were I you I would not linger here, but would take your wagon and depart soonest.”

“Why? We just got here.” Duncan’s gaze narrowed.

The mouse seemed more anxious than ever to be on his way. “You have broken the law.”

Duncan looked to Gragelouth, who shook his head uncomprehendingly. “What law? We haven’t been here long enough to break any laws.” Those citizens assembled in front of the building were suddenly acting furtive, as if simply hovering in the vicinity of the outlandish visitors constituted in itself a kind of daring complicity in outrages anonymous.

“I have done my courtesy.” The mouse abruptly folded both hands beneath its white robe, bowed, and scurried off to his left, dodging before Duncan could again block bis path.

“Cor, come ‘ave a look!” Turning, Duncan saw the otters standing beneath a canopy across the street. Sauntering over, he saw that they were inspecting the wares of a very nervous jerboa vegetable seller. There were white onions, and white grapes, and a kind of oblong white melon, but there were also peppers and tomatoes and other more familiar produce.

“At least everythin’ ‘ere ain’t white,” Squill commented.

Neena held up something like a pale-white peppermint-striped cucumber. “ ‘Ow much for this, madame?”

The jerboa fluttered her paws at them, the tall turban atop her head threatening to collapse at any moment. “Go ‘way, go ‘way!” She was peering fretfully down the street.

“ ‘Ere now, don’t be like that,” said Neena. “I’m just ‘ungry, is all.” She presented a fistful of coins. “Ain’t none o’ this good ‘ere?”

“Yes, yes, it’s all good.” With an air of desperation the jerboa reached out and plucked a couple of minor corns from Neena’s hand, practically shoving the vegetable at her. “Now go, go away.”

The three nonplussed shoppers rejoined Gragelouth. “Well, they ain’t “ostile.” Neena gnawed on the blunt end of the peculiar vegetable. “This ain’t ‘alf bad. Kind o’ a nutty flavor.”

“fits you, then.” Squill never missed an opportunity. “No, they’re not ‘ostile. Just bloomin’ antisocial.”

Buncan was gazing down the street. “Let’s see if we can find that inn.” He called back to the vegetable seller. “If we leave our property here, will it be safe?”

The merchant’s previous concern became outrage. “Of course! This is Hygria. No one would approach, much less try to plunder, anything so unclean as your belongings.”

“Certainly are proud of their cleanliness,” Buncan commented as they started down the street.

“Yes,” agreed Gragelouth. “One might almost say they make a fetish of it.”

“Makes it inviting for visitors.”

“Does it?” the merchant murmured. “I wonder.”

As they made their way down the narrow avenue, Buncan looked for but was unable to find a spot of garbage, junk, or misplaced dirt. Hygria was without a doubt the cleanest community he had ever seen. By comparison Lynchbany, a comparatively well-kept forest town, was a fetid cesspool.

Gragelouth turned to glance back up the street at where they’d left their wagon. “I think that female was telling the truth. I believe our goods will be safe. Not that you three have anything to worry about. All you brought along you carry with you.”

“Wot’s this?” Squill’s tone was mocking. “Trust? That’s not like you, merchant.”

The sloth indicated the narrow avenue. “As we were told, this byway is too narrow for my wagon. There are only pedestrians here. And I found that stall owner’s expression of distaste convincing.”

Neena let her gaze wander from structure to structure, each as pristine white as its neighbor. “This place could use a little livenin’ up. It’s so bleedin’ stiff and clean it makes me teeth “urt.”

They found the inn, its entrance clearly marked by a sign of carved white wood which overhung the street. But before they had a chance to enter, their attention was drawn to a singular entourage approaching from the far end of the street.

A line of half a dozen white-shrouded mice and cavis marching abreast was coming toward them. With fanatical single-mindedness each attacked his or her portion of the avenue with a short-handled, wide-bristled broom. They were followed by a number of mice, pacas, and muskrats armed with wheeled containers and double-handed scoops.

Advancing with the precision of a military drill unit, mis furry assemblage was doing everything but polishing the smooth stones that paved the street. Buncan strained but could not see beyond the wispy cloud of dust they raised. Perhaps the polishers, he reflected only half sarcastically, would come later.

“Blimey, would you take a look at that,” Squill muttered. “That’s carryin’ cleanliness too far.”