neetha Napew - Son Of Spellsinger

“He’s local. A real asshole. Taking off his head would probably gain you the gratitude of everyone in the city.”

“We’re not after anybody’s gratitude,” the lion grunted. “As for assholes, you’ll have to be more specific. Camrioca boasts a plentiful supply.” He gestured with the tankard. “To which local asshole do you happen to be referring?”

“He calls himself a Baron. Koliac Krasvin.”

“Krasvin.” The lion thrust out his lower lip thoughtfully. “I see. Am I correct in assuming that your friend’s sister is being held in the Baron’s fortified home?”

“That’s what we believe,” Buncan told him.

“And you want the three of us,” he indicated his silent companions, “to help you extricate this unlucky female from Krasvin’s possession?” Buncan indicated the affirmative.

The lion nodded slowly. “Let me tell you something, my furless young friend.” He extended a massive paw and tapped Buncan in the sternum with one outthrust finger. Buncan held his ground, refusing to be intimidated.

“First of all, you don’t look like you have access to more than a few silver pieces at most. Our services run considerably more than that. Second, Koliac Krasvin is known to keep no fewer than fifty armed retainers by his side at all times, all of whom will fight to the death at his command. Not out of love for their master, who is, as you rightly surmise, widely disliked, but because they know if they don’t he’ll have their throats slit while they sleep. Krasvin doesn’t tolerate disloyalty.

“Thirdly, Krasvin’s ‘home’ is more like a small castle than a large house. The main building is enclosed within a high stone wall that would make any military engineer proud. The windows are barred, the doors and gates reinforced with iron and brass. There’s no moat, because one isn’t needed. You’ll suck no marrow from that bone with the three of us, not even if you somehow managed to cajole ten more into accompanying you. My professional estimate is that you’d need a small army to storm the front entrance, and I don’t think you have the money to hire a small army. “Lastly, despite his well-known wildings and distasteful proclivities, the Baron has friends in Camrioca, some in high places. If word got out that a force of any size was marching on his estate, he’d have time to prepare and rally not only his personal staff but those of his allies. So you’d end up with your small army facing his small army.” The thumb stopped prodding and its burly owner leaned back in his chair.

“We’re not interested.”

“But . . .,” Buncan started to argue.

“I said no. I don’t like your proposition, and just incidentally,” he added in a low growl that revealed sharp canines, “I don’t much care for primates, either.”

At that point an older, wiser traveler would have simply taken his leave. Buncan was too young and too frustrated to react sensibly.

“You’re not very hospitable to strangers.”

Muscles in the fox’s neck and arms tensed while the caracal emitted a low, throaty snarl. The lion stiffened slightly but made no move to rise.

“Young human, you’re either very brave or very stupid. Since I am big enough to admire the one and forgive the other, I’ll simply tell you that I’ve treated you no differently than anyone else who’d come seeking our assistance. This matter has nothing to do with hospitality. It’s business, and I’ve treated it in a businesslike manner.”

“Forget money for a moment,” Buncan implored him. The caracal laughed sharply, a sound like sandpaper on velvet. “What about my friend’s sister’s virtue?”

“I don’t know where you’re from, cub, but this is Camrioca.” The lion gestured expansively. “Virtue is not a particularly valued commodity in these parts. I’m not willing to risk death for my own, much less another’s.”

“She’s being forced.”

“If it’s gallantry you seek,” said the fox sagely, “look to books and cub-tales. If it’s muscle and armor, look to your purse. And if it’s justice, hope for better in the afterlife.” He threw back the remainder of his drink.

Buncan leaned forward. “Please. We’ve nowhere else to turn.”

Looking him hard in the eye, the lion put a massive paw on Buncan’s shoulder and gently but irresistibly shoved him away. “Have you tried the door? You humans: Even the young ones will argue you to death. You made your offer; we gave our reply. Leave now, before you upset me.”

Buncan wasn’t finished, then realized that he was. It would do the unfortunate Neena no good if he got himself slaughtered here in this tavern, much less facing the ramparts of the Baron’s home. Disconsolately, he moved to rejoin Squill and Gragelouth.

The merchant made room for him at the bar. He eyed Duncan knowingly as his long tongue lapped liquor from a wide-mouthed, short-stemmed glass. “I could have told you.”

“No luck, mate?” Squill asked him. Duncan replied gruffly. “What do you think?” He rubbed the place on his chest where the lion’s thick finger had prodded repeatedly.

The sloth glanced back over a shoulder. “Those were professionals you accosted. A look is enough to brand them as such. Even had they acceded to your request, we would not have had enough money to pay them.”

“We could have ‘deferred’ payment until after Neena’s rescue.”

Gragelouth scratched at the fur between his eyes. “Now you sound like your otterish friends. An attitude like that will get you killed before you reach your second decade.” “Well, I didn’t know what else to do,” Buncan replied irritably. “Squill, I don’t suppose you’ve had any better luck?”

The otter gestured to his right. “Actually, mate, I’ve been chattin’ up that squirrelish barmaid over there. The one with the tufts tippin’ ‘er ears? It’s times like these that I wish I’d paid more attention to some o’ me dad’s stories. The ones ‘e’s more apt to tell when me mum ain’t about.”

Buncan looked disgusted. “And with your sister in mortal danger.”

“Aw, she ain’t in no mortal danger, Buncan.” Despite his disclaimer, Squill looked uncomfortable. “I mean, wot’s the worst thing that could ‘appen to ‘er?” “Put yourself in her position,” Buncan told him. The otter shrugged, but it was halfhearted at best. “See?”

A heavy claw tapped him on the shoulder. “Unlike you and your friend, I may have succeeded in securing us some assistance.”

Buncan’s surprise must have showed. Squill eyed the sloth admiringly.

“Wondered where you’d got off to,” he mumbled.

“I was searching for some solution to our difficult situation. Our fiscal dilemma, you see, is twofold. If we pay for adequate assistance at arms, we will be unable to afford ground transportation with which to continue our journey, and if we choose instead to make arrangements for the latter, we must then go against this Baron without help.”

“Why not then try to find one who might, bearing in mind our severely limited resources, serve equally well both needs?”

“Oi, you’ve gone an’ ‘ired on a giant!” Squill barked excitedly.

“Though I have heard stories of such creatures, I have never met an actual giant of any tribe.”

Buncan gestured in the direction of the lion and his drinking companions. “Black-mane there could pull quite a load, but not the three of us together with supplies, and he’s the biggest in the place.”

Gragelouth shifted on his chair and leaned closer. “Bipeds fight; quadrupeds carry. That is the natural order of things. Among the intelligent tribes who still walk on all fours, most are inclined to pacific pursuits, with but few inclined to battle. Yet there are always exceptions. I believe I may have found one such.”