neetha Napew - Son Of Spellsinger

The rhino shook his head. “Shoddy construction. I want that war paint! And the pennants, and the ribbons. Trumpets, too, if you can manage it.”

Gragelouth mentally consulted his purse. “Trumpets are out of the question, but it may be that we can manage a little of the rest.”

Buncan stared in amazement at the rhino. Armored and alert he looked years younger, dynamic and alive. There was fire in his eyes and vigor in his step. It was an astonishing transformation. Clearly the old maxim held true regardless of tribe. Clothes made the rhino.

He was so excited he’d completely forgotten one small detail. The detail reasserted itself by ambling over to peer down at him.

“It waz good doing businezz with you, young human.” The ursine blacksmith rested a heavy paw on Buacan’s shoulder. “Thiz iz a worthy enterprise. I know of thiz Krasvin’s reputation and have no love for him myself.” He turned and headed for the gate, his assistant trailing behind.

“Zee you in one hour,” the bear called back over a shoulder.

“An hour.” Buncan turned to Squill. Gragelouth and Viz were conversing animatedly with Snaugenhutt. Left to himself, the otter smiled sunnily, flashing sharp white teeth.

Buncan put a comradely arm around his friend’s shoulders. “And why, pray tell, are we expected in our friendly blacksmith’s quarters in an hour?”

“Why, to sign the papers acceptin’ formal delivery o’ iron butt’s new nightgown, mate.”

“I thought you were going to steal something.”

“I admit I considered it right off, but the more I got to lookin’ at wot were required, the more I decided I couldn’t walk out o’ no armorer’s shop with the necessary gear stuffed in me bloomin’ pocket. Even if I could, then I’d ‘ave to steal a bloody wagon to ‘aul it, an’ lizards to pull the wagon. It just got too bleedin’ complicated.”

Buncan jerked his head in the direction of the now closed gate. “So how did you talk them into making the delivery?”

The otter looked embarrassed. “Don’t let this get around among me friends and family, mate, but I sort o’ . . . paid for it.”

Buncan frowned. “Paid for it? With money? Squill, have you been holding out on us?”

“ ‘Ere now, mate, I wouldn’t never do nothin’ like that! It’s just that I thought I’d best bring along a few coins in case o’ some emergency, an’ this ‘ere situation struck me as qualifyin’.”

Buncan’s expression grew dark. “Where’d you get any real money?”

The otter looked away. “Well, before we started off I thought we might need somethin’ extra, so I sort o’ borrowed it from me dad.”

Buncan gaped. “You stole from Mudge?”

“Just sort o’ borrowed it, Buncan. Mudge, ‘e’ll understand. ‘E did plenty o’ borrowin’ in ‘is time.”

“He’s going to kill you!”

Squill shrugged. “Got to catch up with me first.”

Buncan shook his head in disbelief. “So we’ve been scrimping this entire journey and you’ve had money all along?”

“I told you, Buncan, it were for an emergency. Anyway, I got to thinkin’ about wot you’ve been sayin’, an’ even if she is a worse pest than water lice an’ not the kind o’ siblin’ I’d choose if I ‘ad me choice, she is still me only sister.”

“I have a feeling you’re not exactly the kind of brother she’d opt for, either. How do you expect to pay Mudge back?”

“I kind o’ thought we might find some treasure or somethin’ along the way. Maybe this Grand Veritable’s worth a packet o’ gold, or somethin’.”

“If it even exists,” Buncan reminded him coolly. “Squill, you live in a moral vacuum.”

“Oi, that I do.” The otter straightened. “Mudge’d be proud.” He stepped past his friend. “We got the bleedin’ armor, didn’t we? We’ve got an outside shot at bringin’ this crazy stunt off, don’t we? Ain’t that wot matters?”

“I guess so. It’s your neck when we get home.”

“Bloomin’ right it is. So let’s find this walkin’ beer sump ‘is paint and pretties, and get on with it. Besides, if we don’t bring this off an’ I’m killed, I won’t owe Mudge any money.”

Once again Buncan was left struck dumb by the inevitability of otter logic.

CHAPTER 15

They planned the assault for midnight, hoping that Neena had somehow remained unsullied thus far by the Baron’s attentions.

This was actually the case, though Squill’s sister was growing desperately tired. Having enjoyed a long and restful sleep, Krasvin was now content to bide his time, no longer in any especial hurry. Not wishing to risk a single additional volume from his collection, he had decided to relax until his quarry simply collapsed from exhaustion, which point in time was observably not far off now.

Then, he thought calmly to himself, events would proceed as they ought. He amused himself with elaborate mental preparations.

Buncan and his companions ventured out to sign the blacksmith’s papers, leaving Viz to arrange for the war paint and frills his newly energized companion had requested. Unable to rest, they wandered the streets of Camrioca until the sun had set and been replaced by a rising half-moon. Then they returned to the tavern to rejoin the others.

The lion was there, with his two fellow fighters. He made some comment as Buncan and his companions walked past. Buncan saw the fox and caracal laugh uproariously but hardly spared a glance in their direction. They weren’t needed, he thought firmly. Snaugenhutt was all they needed.

Save for a pair of deer snuggling in a far bay, the stable area was deserted. They hurried to Snaugenhutt’s stall, eager to be on their way.

Which was when disaster, that most uncomely of all possibilities, smiled callously upon them.

Prone in his stall, bright tail pennant stained with urine, ribbons askew, armor slack and anything but intimidating, Snaugenhutt lay snoring sonorously. The thick stench of cheap liquor was overpowering.

Viz sat morosely on the rim of a barrel nearby his legs hanging over the edge, tiny beret clasped in flexible wingtips, head down. The tickbird was a picture of feathered misery.

“I only went out for a little while. Just a little while.”

Buncan sat down in a clean patch of bedding and picked disconsolately at the straw. “What for! And why now, of all times?” Angrily he flung a handful of straw at the comatose rhino.

“Disaster most complete.” Gragelouth glanced sorrowfully at Squill. “No chance now for your sister.”

“I can’t believe it.” The otter booted an iron scute. It clinked against another. Snaugenhutt didn’t stir. “All ‘e ‘ad to do was stay sober for ‘alf an afternoon. Wot ‘appened to his newfound pride, ‘is sense o’ duty? We ‘ad a bleedin’ arrangement, we did.”

“He was all set to go,” Viz mumbled miserably. “Looking forward to it. He was so much like, like his old self. I didn’t think there’d be any harm in leaving him for a while.”

“Why did you leave him?” Buncan asked testily. The tickbird couldn’t meet the human’s gaze.

“Tried to arrange a loan. We’re over a month behind on our bill here. I meant to tell you later. I was only gone a few hours, but when I got back,” he indicated the huge, insensible form, “Snaug was like this. His trough’s empty. I was afraid to ask inside how much he’d had.”

Squill slumped against the wall, crossing his arms in disgust. “Now wot?”

“We wait until he sleeps it off,” Viz told him. “Tomorrow morning, if we’re lucky.” He gazed at his enormous, presently useless friend. “I don’t understand. He was so proud to be embarking on a new campaign.”

“How are we going to juice him up a second time?” Buncan muttered. “We can’t armor him all over again.” He was quiet for several moments. Then he rose and removed not his sword, but a potentially far more powerful weapon.