neetha Napew - Son Of Spellsinger

Krasvin’s smile returned. “I will put my mind to a method of ensuring your unhindered departure.”

“So you’ve decided to let me go?” She yawned again.

“My library is more important to me than any mere conquest. I will think how to reassure you.”

“Now you’re bein’ smart.” As she eyed him uncertainly the book started to slide from her relaxed fingers. Startled, she regripped the covers.

He rose from the chair. “My advisers and I will devise a method to satisfy you. A pity. I admire your spirit as much as your tail. But if it is not to be,” he executed an elaborate, theatrical shrug of disappointment, “it is not to be.” Turning, he accompanied Byelroeth out to the atrium.

“She tires, your lordship,” said the mandrill. “As much pressure as she has been under, surely she cannot remain awake much longer.”

“It’s nothing compared to the pressure she’s going to be under when I get her out of there.” Krasvin turned to his Adviser. “I’m going to my chambers for a nap. Make certain the watch on her is rotated regularly and kept fresh. I don’t know where she learned to fight like that, but I’m taking no chances. Not with the imbeciles I’m forced to depend on.”

“She will doubtless fall asleep before you awaken, your lordship.”

“Yes. Then we’ll write some pages of our own in a different sort of book. One that’s appropriately bound.” He stalked off in the direction of his private rooms, his hands clasped behind his back, the fingers kneading one another in anticipation of work to come. The mandrill did not share his Master’s peculiar tastes, and he shuddered for the lady in the library.

CHAPTER 13

The tavern was situated close to both the central marketplace and the harbor. It was elegant without and spacious within, the sort of establishment where the city’s honorable citizens could mix comfortably with less reputable inhabitants and travelers. A good place in which to find both information and aid.

“This mad venture had best not cost overmuch.” Gragelouth cautiously considered their intended destination from the outside. “Not that I wouldn’t do everything within my power to rescue your sister,” he added quickly to Squill, who hovered nearby, “but I cannot forbear from pointing out that our resources are already sorely strained.”

Buncan was trying to see through one of the windows into the tavern. It was packed with patrons. There was a wooden piano in back at which a flea-bitten wolf plied his trade. The barmaids came from many tribes, but none looked any less tough or competent than the customers they served. He and Squill followed the merchant inside.

Representatives of dozens of species caroused at booths and tables or harangued the several bartenders. The music was loud, the conversation louder still. Everyone looked . . . used.

“Maybe we’d do better elsewhere,” he suggested, having to raise his voice to make himself heard.

“I did some checking.” The sloth was ambling toward the entrance. “In a more refined establishment we will not find the land of help we seek. Indeed, we would run the risk of encountering friends of this Baron.” He smiled gently, and not for the first time Buncan found himself wondering what truly lay behind that smile. The smile behind the snout, as it were.

“Anywhere more disreputable and any help we might engage would probably prove unreliable, likely to bolt at the first hint of difficulty or danger. Not that I am hopeful of finding anyone anywhere willing to risk their lives for so little recompense as we can offer.”

Buncan nodded his understanding, affecting what he hoped was an air of cosmopolitan insouciance as they sauntered into the main room. They were quickly swept up in the heady, boisterous atmosphere.

While Gragelouth made straight for the bar, Buncan strolled among the tables until his gaze fell on a full-grown, black-maned lion. Standing, the powerful feline would have towered over him. Broad, muscle-slabbed shoulders peered out from beneath iridescent snake-leather armor which was thickly fringed at the edges. It covered shoulders and upper chest only, leaving the flat belly revealed. Matching fringed shorts and high-laced sandals completed the attire. A double-handed sword longer than Squill was tall rested in its scabbard against the side of the round table at which its owner relaxed. Presently, the lion was holding a brass-bound wooden tankard the size of a man’s head.

“Now that’s just who we need on our side.” He headed for the table.

Squill trailed along uncertainly, plucking at his friend’s tunic. “ ‘Ere now, mate, maybe we ought to let the merchant ‘ave a go first, wot? ‘E’s the one with the negotiatin’ experience.”

Buncan didn’t alter his vector. “I’m just going to talk to him. Don’t worry, I can handle it.”

The nearer they drew, the bigger the lion looked. Squill muttered something under his breath.

The feline was holding court with the oversize, sloshing tankard. His road-toughened companions, a fox and caracal, didn’t look like pushovers themselves. The caracal’s sharply raked ears turned in Duncan’s direction an instant before he spoke.

“Excuse me.”

The back of the lion’s mane had been combed and tied in a thick ponytail. It rustled as its owner glanced questioningly out of large yellow eyes at the presumptuous young human. “No,” he said without hesitation. His voice was deep and vibrant, as if it rose from the bottom of an old stone well.

Buncan was taken aback. “Sorry?” A deep nimble issued from the back of the lion’s throat. “I mean that I won’t excuse you.” The tankard rose and beer vanished. A heavy tongue licked subsidiary suds from a tan muzzle. Across the table the fox and caracal shared a meaningful chuckle.

Ignoring Squill’s insistent tugs, Buncan regarded the smug trio. “Suit yourself. I guess this means that you’re all independently wealthy.”

The fox’s ears pricked up. “Say again?” The caracal, too, showed sudden interest.

Buncan shifted from one foot to the other, affecting nonchalance. “I said that you must all be independently wealthy. It’s clear you don’t need any work.”

“Who said we didn’t need work?” The fox ignored the lion’s disapproving glare.

Buncan shrugged. “You’re not interested in my offer of employment.”

The lion placed a paw on the table, extending all five claws. They dug into the thick wood, which was scarred from similar attention from time and customers immemorial. It was hard not to stare at them.

“Explain yourself, cub.”

Buncan bristled but contained himself. “My friend’s sister has been abducted.”

“What friend?” asked the feline with a low growl.

Buncan turned. Squill was nowhere to be seen. Searching farther afield located him seated at the bar. The otter held a mug in one hand and waved cheerily with the other. With a sigh, Buncan turned back to the table.

“He’s over there.”

“So his sister’s been abducted. It’s a tough world. What’s that to us?” the caracal muttered.

“Money, and adventure. If you assist us in her rescue.”

The smaller feline toyed with his own tankard, which was half the size of the lion’s. “Adventure’s usually a fool’s word for describing discomfort and hardship. If I long for some I can usually find it without having to fight off desperate kidnappers.”

“How do you know it’ll be like that?” Buncan asked him.

“Because it is a friend who is involved, your interest in this matter is obviously personal,” observed the fox. “Ours would not be.” He glanced speculatively across the table. “If the fee were right . . .”

“Fust things first,” the lion murmured. “Who’s done the kidnapping? Transient thieves? Registered Guild Abductors? Some fool freelancers?” He uttered the last hopefully.