neetha Napew - Son Of Spellsinger

“Surely there’s something I can do.” Though Gragelouth was still reluctant to participate, Buncan found himself caught up in the spirit of the enterprise.

Squill was rubbing his hands together as he surveyed the cell. “This ain’t goin’ to be ‘alf work.” His eyes fell on the food bowls. “I think I’m about ready for a stomach-chumin’ little snack, I am.”

Hearing the racket, one of the guards stationed out in the antechamber arrived to check on the disturbance. The sight and sounds that greeted him caused his eyes to widen.

“Stop that! Stop it immediately!” He gestured with his spear as he ran toward the cell.

Weaving unsteadily, Squill staggered over to the bars and proceeded to pee on the paca’s immaculate white boots. From the look that came over the guard’s face one would have thought he’d been run through, Buncan thought. The paca let out a shriek, dropped his weapon, and ran wildly for the exit. Despite the condition of his stomach, Squill still managed a smile for his companions.

The otters gleefully pursued their methodical degradation of the cell, while Gragelouth and Buncan kept to one marginally unblemished comer. It was at once fascinating and unsettling to watch.

Flanked by a pair of sword-carrying squirrels and the sleepy-eyed commandant, it was Kimmilpat who came waddling down the corridor to confront mem. “What is this? What’s going on here?” he sputtered as he neared the cell. “All this commotion! It will not go easy on you for having roused me from my sleep when I have only just—”

He halted, openmouthed, as he took in the scene. So did his escort.

Squill and Neena had removed their clothes and scattered mem all over the cell. Likewise Buncan and the reluctant Gragelouth, both of whom leaned buck naked against the back wall. It looked as if a laundry cart had blown up.

The cell’s single chamber pot had been overturned and its odious contents tossed out into the corridor, save for what had stuck to the now-stained white bars. Fragments of broken dinner bowls lay everywhere, mixed in with the demolished stuffing of the several sleeping pads. Perhaps half the evening’s meal lay strewn about. Some of it dripped down the wall opposite the cell, bits of meat and vegetables sliding glaucously down the pristine white surface.

The woodchuck’s insides trembled but held steady. “I know what you’re trying to do, and it won’t work.” As he spoke the two guards, their hands clasped to then- mouths, turned and fled. To his credit the commandant remained behind, though he was looking exceedingly queasy.

“What won’t work, guv?” Tongue lolling, Squill pressed up against the bars and let the drool from his mouth drip down the bars onto the floor outside. The commandant recoiled.

“Some poor citizens are going to have to clean this up,” the wizard protested, “after they have been suitably fortified for the task, of course. I warn you to cease this outrage immediately!”

“Wot outrage?” Moving to stand next to her brother, Neena conspicuously picked her nose and flicked the contents out between the bars.

“Agghhhh! You were warned!” Kimmilpat raised both arms and began to chant Squill turned to his sister. “Not a bad voice, though a bit ‘igh-pitched for me taste.” Sticking his head as far between the bars as he could manage, he shoved a furry finger down his throat and commenced to upchuck with astonishing force all over the wizard’s impeccable, intricately embroidered gown.

Stunned, Kimmilpat stopped in mid-incantation to look down at himself. At the same time his nostrils conveyed to him the full aroma of the blessing Squill had bestowed upon his august person. Innocent, as it were, of any natural resistance to such effluvia, the dazed wizard promptly whirled and barfed all over the nether regions of the commandant, making an admirably thorough job of it and missing nary a square inch of the glossy white cloth.

By this time utter confusion reigned in the anteroom beyond the cell block as baffled and frightened guards struggled to make sense of what was happening beyond their immediate range of vision. But not, distressingly for them, beyond their range of hearing.

“This . . . mis is revolting beyond imagination!” The puce-faced commandant gasped weakly as he struggled to help me overcome wizard back to his feet.

“Why thanks, guv.” Spittle dribbled profusely from Squill’s lower jaw. “We ‘ave a good example to inspire us, we do. ‘Ere, let me ‘elp clean that up.” Taking a huge mouthful of water from the still-intact cell jug, he sprayed every drop of it smack into the face of the unsuspecting Kimmilpat as the stunned wizard stumbled around to face him.

As the overwhelmed woodchuck collapsed for the second time in as many minutes, Squill considered the nearly empty jug. “ ‘Ard to make great art when you don’t ‘ave sufficient materials to work with. Oi,” he shouted to the commandant, “we need another meal in ‘ere! We nearly went an’ digested that last one, we did.”

A cluster of guards tentatively examined the corridor, intent on aiding their commanding officer. The sight and smell turned the ones in front and set them to struggling frantically with those following immediately behind.

Pinching his nostrils with two fingers, Buncan spoke nasally to Gragelouth. “See? Squill was right. Where cleanliness is concerned these people are so used to perfection that they can’t handle real filth when confronted with it. They can’t cope.”

“They can still kill us.” The sloth was doing his best to shroud his own much more sensitive proboscis.

“Only at the risk of making another mess.”

“Maybe they haveanother mess.”

“Maybe they have we cannot imagine.”

“When things are tough your optimism’s a real comfort, Gragelouth.”

“I am a realist,” the merchant protested. “And I have reason to be.” He pointed.

Forcing his way through the knot of panicked guards was the senior Hygrian wizard, Multhumot, resplendent in a gold-embroidered white gown of office. Indignation colored his broad, furry face and his whiskers were convulsing as he pushed the commandant aside to assist his colleague.

“What is this . . . this corruption?”

“They think to provoke us into letting them go.” The badly unsettled Kimmilpat was wheezing weakly.

Multhumot glared at the prisoners as he steadied his associate. “That is not going to happen. Not while I have convicted power left in my body.” Covering his broad nose as best he was able, he advanced purposefully on the reeking cell, his other hand upraised. Miniature lightning crackled between his spread fingers as he commenced a deep-throated invocation of profound import.

He was barely halfway through the first sentence when Squill, taking unabashed aim and demonstrating extraordinary accuracy even for one so obviously skilled in such matters, proceeded to anoint the wizard with the remaining contents of the water jug via the conduit of his own body. Initially struck square in the face (hard as he strained, Squill couldn’t maintain the flow for very long), the wizard stopped dead in his tracks, blinked, realized fully the extent of the ultimate unhygienic act which had been performed upon him, and fainted clean away.

Not the similarly debased Kimmilpat, nor the commandant, nor any of the ordinary guards had the courage to advance to the woodchuck wizard’s rescue. Meanwhile the otters, employing the relentless energy and enthusiasm of their kind, did their best to exacerbate the despoiled condition of bom their cell and the adjoining corridor. Throwing himself into the spirit of the moment, Buncan participated as best he could. Gragelouth simply could not bring himself to do more than occasionally expectorate on the cell floor. Most of the time he simply kept his face averted from the fray and let out an occasional moan.