neetha Napew - Son Of Spellsinger

“No wonder that little jerboa thought us unclean,” Buncan added.

Neena couldn’t repress a whiskery smirk. “Maybe that’s why they call this kind o’ country scrubland.” She ducked a blow from her brother.

Buncan confronted a well-dressed, slightly corpulent cap-ybara as he emerged from the cool darkness of the inn. His fur was cut in bangs over his forehead.

He eyed Buncan and his companions askance. “Where have you people come from?”

“Out o’ the Moors,” said Squill proudly.

The capy squinted at him, his blunt muzzle twitching. “I doubt that, but it’s obvious you’re not from around here.”

Buncan indicated the approaching street sweepers. “How often do they do that?”

“Several times each day, of course.” The capy sniffed disdainfully, careful to keep his distance from the tall human. “That’s the hygiene patrol.”

Squill started to snigger. “Patrol? What do they do when they find dirt? Arrest it?” Gragelouth made anxious silencing motions at the otter, which Squill naturally ignored.

“As strangers here, you self-evidently do not understand. We are proud of our ways.” The capy sniffed. “If I were you, I’d get out of sight as soon as possible.”

“Why?” Buncan recalled the mouse’s warning.

“Because you do not measure up to local standards. Now, if you will excuse me.”

Buncan stepped aside and watched the capy waddle away up the street. “Wonder what he meant by that.”

“I do not know,” said Gragelouth, “but we had better move or we are liable to find ourselves swept up together with the dust and dirt.”

They entered into the inn just as the patrol reached them, watched as it literally swept past. Their precision was impressive, Buncan had to admit. As soon as they’d passed he stepped back out Into the street, following them with his gaze.

“I mink that’s it.”

A ringer tapped him on the shoulder. “Not quite, mate.”

Squill nodded down the street. Advancing in the sweepers’ wake was a squad of eight pike-armed pacas, squirrels, degus, capys, and assorted others. They marched in two lines, one behind the other, blocking the street from side to side, their white uniforms Immaculate. Each wore an inscribed headband beneath his flowing headgear. The insignia of a large rat marching in front gleamed golden.

Buncan met his gaze evenly as the entire squad halted outside the inn. The rat’s disgust as he inspected the travelers was almost palpable.

“Strangers,” he muttered. “Just arrived?”

“That’s right,” admitted Buncan. He suddenly sensed Gragelouth trying to fade into the shadows behind him.

A pair of degus stepped inside, squeezing past the otters. “You’ll have to come with us,” the rat told him.

Buncan frowned. “What for? We were just going to see about a couple of rooms.”

“Accommodation will be provided for you.” The rat barked an order, and the business ends of seven pikes inclined in their direction.

Buncan put his hand on his sword, felt Gragelouth close beside him. “We are deep within the city. Fighting will do us no good here.” As usual, the merchant made sense. Buncan forced himself to relax. “They may only wish to question us,” the sloth went on. “Perhaps we will have to pay a fine. Whatever they want, it would be premature to start a ruckus.”

“Speak for yourself,” said Squill, but he did not reach for his own weapons.

“We haven’t done anything.” Buncan took a step forward.

The three-and-a-half-foot-tall rat retreated instantly from the towering primate, pulling a silver whistle from a pocket and blowing hard. The shrill blast echoed down the street.

Additional soldiers materialized from nowhere, until the travelers were no longer merely surrounded but hemmed in.

“Hey, take it easy!” Like his companions, Buncan was taken aback by the unexpected and overwhelming display of force. Notions of reaching not for his sword but his duar were hindered by the proximity of so many weapons and the edgy attitude of those wielding them. “We’ll come with you.”

“A wise decision.” The rat looked satisfied.

The white-clad troops formed an impenetrable mass both in front of and behind the sullen travelers as they were convoyed down the street. “You still haven’t told us what we’re supposed to have done,” Buncan pressed the rat in command.

“Done?” The commander looked back at him. “You offend by your very presence. Your existence degrades, indeed mocks, all decent community standards.”

“Ere now, guv,” said Squill, “are you implyin’ that me and me mates are duty?”

“No,” replied the rat. “I’m saying that your condition is filthy, execrable, squalid, and unclean. Your odor is rank and your feet defile the ground wherever they make contact. As for your breath, it is of a loathsomeness so lavish that I do not possess terms of sufficient severity with which to describe it.”

Neena leaned close to her brother. ‘ I think ‘e’s sayin’ that we don’t quite measure up to the local median, cleanliness-wise.”

“You will have an opportunity to purify yourselves as much as possible prior to your appearance before the Magistrate,” the rat was telling them as they turned a corner. The street opened onto a landscaped square paved in white limestone. Citizens gathered around the milky marble fountain in the center stared openmouthed as the parade passed.

On the far side of the square they were marched into a large building and made to wait in a spacious chamber while the commandant rat conversed with a colleague behind a desk. Asked to hand over their weapons and personal effects, there was little they could do but comply. To Buncan’s chagrin, he was also compelled to turn in his duar. That done, most of their escort departed. The remainder escorted and shoved them, none too gently, down a short corridor and into a large barred vestibule. Even the odd diagonal bars had been painted white.

Jail it might be, but the cell was as spotless as the antechamber outside.

Squill grabbed the bars and yelled after the departing rat and his companion, the chief jailer (a shrew of unpleasant disposition and appearance).

“You’d better not try to keep us ‘ere any longer than we’re willin’ to go along with this! We’re powerful sorcerers, we are.”

The rats looked back and grinned thinly. “Of course you are. But tell me: If you’re such masters of the arcane arts, why not use your magic to properly cleanse yourselves?”

“We are clean, dammit!” Gripping the bars, Squill hopped up and down in frustration.

“Not by civilized standards.” The officers turned a corner and vacated the corridor outside the cells.

Neena took a seat on one of the two benches that hung suspended from a wall . . . no doubt to make it easier to clean under, Buncan mused.

“Well, we didn’t ‘ave no trouble findin’ a place to spend the night.”

Buncan tried to put the best possible light on their situation. “This isn’t so bad. Inconvenient, but hardly dangerous. We’ll answer their questions and pay their fine, as Gragelouth surmises, and then we’ll get the hell out of Hygria as fast as we can replenish our supplies.”

“My wagon and team,” the merchant mumbled. Buncan eyed him unsympathetically.

“You’re the one who said to cooperate.”

The sloth regarded him with atypical sharpness. “You saw how many there were. We would have not stood a chance in a close-quarter battle. The intelligent fighter picks the time that best suits him.”

“Righty-ho.” Squill spread his arms wide. “Why, we’re in a much better position to get out o’ this compost ‘cap now than we were afore.”

“At least we’re not dead,” Gragelouth shot back, showing uncharacteristic pugnacity. “I have watched. You need time to compose your spellsongs. We possessed no such margin for chronological error when we were surrounded.”