neetha Napew - Son Of Spellsinger

“We could magic ourselves out o’ ‘ere,” Neena murmured, “except . . .”

“No duar,” Buncan finished for her. “We may have to try and clean ourselves up to meet their standards.”

“You weren’t payin’ attention, mate.” Squill ran a paw down the diagonal bars. “That’ll just get us an audience with the local judge, not out o’ ‘ere. An’ wot ‘appens if no matter wot we do we can’t never get up to their bleedin’ high ‘standards’?” He showed bright teeth. “I don’t like bein’ pushed around.”

“They may only want our money,” Gragelouth observed.

“Maybe, maybe,” Squill murmured softly. “Or they might want everythin’ of ours, which they’ll confiscate while we rot away in this bleedin’ cell.”

“They won’t let us rot,” said his sister. “Wouldn’t be a clean thing to do.”

“Maybe, but I don’t think I want to ‘ang around to find out.” Gragelouth rose from where he’d been sitting and gazed up the corridor. “Someone is coming.”

It was the rat, flanked by a pair of strangely garbed woodchucks. Their attire was richly embroidered with a plethora of appliqu6d arcane symbols.

They halted outside the cell. The nearest woodchuck adjusted bifocal glasses. “What have we here?”

“They claim to be sorcerers.” The rat’s lips curled in an elegant sneer.

“Look more like vagrants to me,” commented the second, slightly taller woodchuck.

His associate nodded. “I am Multhumot, Senior Master of the Hidden Arts for Hygria. I do not believe, but I am willing to be convinced. If you are sorcerers, show me a sample of your skills.”

“You mean you’re gonna let us?” said Squill. “Right!”

“An effective demonstration will require more than enthusiasm.” The woodchuck’s tone was dry.

“We are sorry if we have unwillingly given any offense.” Gragelouth advanced from the back of the cell to the bars. “If you will but return to us our possessions, we will depart immediately.”

“It is too late for that.” The commandant was smiling. “You have committed grave offenses and must pay the penalty.” Gragelouth nodded his shaggy head, muttering. “It is as I suspected.”

“Oi, you were right, merchant.” Neena was staring at the rat. “That’s wot they were after all along. Tell me, bald-tail, is your conscience as clean as your butt?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” By his tone the commandant indicated that he knew exactly what she meant.

“Right.” Squill looked eager. “They want proof, let’s give ‘em some proof.”

“Maybe it would be better simply to pay the fine,” Gragelouth ventured uneasily.

“Stuff it, sloth,” said Squill. “This ‘ere’s personal now.”

“I need my instrument back.” Duncan did his best to affect an air of indifference.

“The Master wants to see magic, not music.” The rat snorted disdainfully.

Multhumot waved a hand. “Bring what he requests, but first check the interior for weapons and devices.” He eyed Duncan appraisingly. “This had best not be a joke, human. Do not think to toy with me.”

Buncan kept his expression carefully neutral.

A squirrel appeared with the duar. The cell door was opened and it was passed inside. Buncan cradled it lovingly, checking it thoroughly for damage. It appeared unharmed. Only when he was satisfied did he turn to the otters, who waited expectantly.

“Something simple,” he told them. “Just enough for a demonstration.”

4 ‘Ell, I wanted to flatten the ‘ole bleedin’ city.” Squill was unashamedly disappointed.

“ ‘Ow about we dissolve these bars?” Neena smiled sweetly at the rat. “Would that be adequate proof?” The commandant stiffened slightly. For the first time he looked less than completely confident. By contrast, the two wood-chucks evinced hardly any reaction.

“That would be interesting,” Multhumot’s associate admitted.

Buncan bowed slightly and commenced to follow the otters’ vocal lead.

“Got no freedom in this place

Time to get out an’ get on with the race

This place ‘ere stinks, this space ‘ere winks

Let’s waste this fokker and get back to our Stinks.

Us an’ our friends, that’s wot we thinks.”

The mist that materialized this time was dark and threatening. It coalesced into a compact cumulonimbus cloud which began first to rumble, then to flash ominously. Intrigued, the woodchucks held their ground while the commandant took a couple of steps toward the corridor exit.

Miniature lightning began to run up and down the restraining bars, curling around the metal while seeking the places where the bars were fixed to wall and floor. The strobing light cast the faces of spellsingers and player into barbaric relief. Beyond the corridor, guards and administrators garnered fearfully to listen.

Unperturbed, Multhumot raised both short arms and mumbled laconically. His colleague removed a flask from within his copious robes and began to sprinkle its contents on the bars. The fluid smelled powerfully of lemon and ammonia.

Buncan’s nose twitched as the odor struck him, and he knew that the otters, with their more sensitive nostrils, could hardly be missing it.

A second cloud appeared in the corridor. It was an intense, brilliant white, sanctified and fluffy and shot through with silver. Under Multhumot’s direction it drifted purposefully toward the cell. Trying to ignore it, Buncan kept playing while the suddenly wary otters rapped on.

The ivory cloud made contact with the one which had spread itself along the bars. Ragged lightning erupted at the confluence, and the air was acrid with the smell of ozone. The dark nimbus Buncan and his friends had conjured began to break apart into tiny, harmless puffs.

There was a bright, actinic flash which caused everyone to blink. The smell of lemon-fresh and otherworldly room deodorizer was strong in the air. Though they sang and played on as determinedly as ever, Buncan and his companions were unable to regenerate the dark cloud.

“So much for your squalid sorcery.” Multhumot’s associate looked pleased. “We of Hygria can scrub it out of existence, wash it from this dimension, render it impotent through disinfective invocation. From now on this chamber will remain whiter than white and squeaky clean in spite of all your efforts to foul it through your outlander spellsinging.” Behind him the commandant, his confidence restored, beamed triumphantly.

“ ‘Ere, don’t let ‘em get away with that!” blurted Squill furiously. “Let’s ‘ave another go, mate.”

“I don’t know, Squill.” Buncan let his tired fingers fall from the strings, “I don’t feel too good right now. Maybe we’d better give it some thought.”

“Don’t back down on us now, Bunkile,” Neena implored him.

He forced himself to straighten. “All right. One more time.”

“Let’s really give it to the dirty buggers.” Squill bent to exchange ideas with his sister. When they had agreed on lyrics, they began to sing.

The vapor that boiled out of the duar this time was a throbbing, angry red that screeched and gibbered. The knife-edged lyrics of the otters were matched by the crimson blades that emerged from the coalescing fog. Seeking eagerly, they hissed up and down, looking for something to slice, as the cloud drifted inexorably toward the cell bars.

CHAPTER 9

The commandant’s expression fell and he retreated to the far end of the corridor, cowering near the portal. Though initially taken aback, the two woodchucks held their ground. As the threatening cloud drifted toward them, they lifted their arms and began to chant in tandem. Grasping arms emerged from the nimbus, reaching outward.