neetha Napew - Son Of Spellsinger

Neena let out a derisive bark. “Why not? I thought the stuff were always in short supply.”

The sloth looked up at her. “Tram’s an intangible. I do not deal in intangibles.”

She knelt next to the object. “Looks kind of . . . broken.”

“I assure you it’s not.” Bright green eyes studied Gragelouth. “I owe you much. Had I eaten you, there’s no telling how long I’d have continued to suffer. So you are a merchant in ‘tangible’ things? I know about merchants. I’ve had several for dinner. There exists a base for the Grand Veritable. Maybe you’d find it of more interest than the Veritable itself.”

The sloth blinked slowly. “I do not understand.”

“Come and have a look-see.” The sabertooth started toward the cave. So despondent was Gragelouth that he followed without thinking.

Time passed while Buncan and the others studied the Grand Veritable closely. Their examination left them no less baffled than when the Guardian had first presented it to mem.

A voice shouted from the lip of the cave. “Hoy, Snaugenhutt! Come give us a hand here, would you?” The rhino shrugged and ambled over. As it developed, the assistance of Duncan and the otters was required as well.

Deeply graven with cryptic inscriptions, the ancient pedestal was as tall as Neena. Poured in the shape of a pyramid with the top sliced off to form a resting place for the Veritable, it was so heavy it required their combined efforts to wrestle it into place on Snaugenhutt’s back, where they secured it with leather straps. Still, Squill worried about it falling off on their return journey.

“No need to concern yourself on that matter.” Grage-louth’s eyes were shining. “I will ride alongside and see to its stability.”

At least, Buncan mused, they wouldn’t have to worry about it blowing away. The pedestal was fashioned of solid, absolutely pure gold. The purest gold, Gragelouth breathlessly informed them, he had ever seen. A gold that was not of this world, but was recognizably gold nonetheless.

“No revelations,” he commented, “but for all that, a most profitable journey. Yes, most profitable.”

‘Ere now.” Squill was quick to protest. “Wot makes you think feat bit o’ furniture’s all yours?”

The merchant looked hurt. “You came seeking adventure. Surely you have had that in quantity. You also have the Veritable. The wizard of whom you spoke should find it of considerable interest. Each of us has gained what we came for. Do not mink to deprive me of my dream, however base you may find my motives.”

“Take it easy,” Buncan told him. “We don’t want your gold.”

The otters gaped at him. “We don’t?” they chorused.

“Gragelouth’s right. We’ve gained more from mis journey man mere gold could buy.”

“But,” Squill sputtered, “maybe just a little mere gold . . . ?”

Buncan had turned away from him and back to the Veritable. “I still don’t see how this thing embodies or represents truth.”

A frustrated Squill gave it anomer kick. “It don’t embody nothin’ but garbage, Buncan. Me, I’d rather ‘ave a share o’ the gold.”

Buncan knelt next to the large, rectangular metal box and ran his fingers over the surface. There were glass-covered numbers with little arrows pointing to them, round knobs and buttons, and a large window beneath which a paper scroll was prominent. A narrow metal pointer thrust hallway up the height of the scroll, which was in turn divided by innumerable little black squares, and a black rope that ended in a twin-pronged knob of some kind protruded from the rear of the box. The exterior was somewhat the worse for wear, but intact at the corners and seams. Of one dung Buncan was certain: The Grand Veritable was indubitably a device necromantic.

“Be careful,” the Guardian warned nun as he fiddled with the knobs and buttons. “It’s enchanted.”

“It’s manure,” groused Squill. Because of his long torso and short arms, he had to bend almost double in order to thrust bis hands angrily into his pockets. He leaned over Buncan’s shoulder and shouted at the bruised and scratched box.

“Go on, men; show us somethin’!” Stepping around Buncan and ignoring his protests, the otter picked up the container and shook it firmly. It made quite a bit of noise, as if mere were a number of small bits rattling around loose inside. Disgusted, he let it drop unceremoniously. “Some source o’ ultimate power!” he griped. “A smidgen overrated, wouldn’t you say?”

“Like most wondrous rumors.” There was a hint of sadness in Neena’s voice.

“Maybe we just don’t know how to make it work?” Buncan suggested.

“A spellsong?” Neena eyed the box uncertainly.

Buncan looked doubtful. “How to begin? We don’t know what it’s capable of or what it can do, if anything. So how do we design a song?”

“Why sing to that hunk o’ junk?” Squill had turned his back on the sorry-looking Veritable. “Might as well sing to the trees, or the sky. The ‘truth’ is that we’ve come all this bloomin’ way for nothin’. If the bloody thing ever did do anythin’, it don’t no more.”

“Where’s your sense of vision, of higher motives?” Buncan challenged him.

Squill squinted up at his friend. “I’m an otter, mate. We don’t ‘ave a sense o’ vision or ‘igher motives. We ‘ave fun. Gold aids an’ abets that. Junk don’t.”

“Come on Squill. Which would be more valuable to you: the truth, or a little gold?”

The otter made a truly appalling face. “Let me get back to you on that, mate.”

Disappointed, Buncan turned back to the object of controversy. “Maybe Clothahamp and Jon-Tom can do something with it.” Bending,’he carefully raised it off the rocks. It was heavy, but not unduly so.

“You don’t mean you’re goin’ to take up ridin’ space with that thing?” Squill was more outraged than angry.

“It’s my space. I’ll make room for it.” With those few remaining straps which hadn’t been used to secure the pedestal, Buncan set about tying the Grand Veritable to Snaugenhutt’s back.

They left the sabertooth on his mountain, turning somersaults and yelping with joy as he snapped at trees, rocks, and whatever else struck his fancy, biting for the sheer joy of being able to once again bite without pain.

CHAPTER 26

The journey home proved far easier and faster man it had been coming out, for they knew which areas to avoid and which to stick to. This time they encountered no caucusing whirlwinds or animate mesas. They crossed the Sprilashoone downstream of Camrioca and its doubtless still-seething Baron Krasvin. By the time they reached the Muddletup Moors they found its brooding atmosphere almost invigorating, so near were they to home. After what seemed like an age (but if you think carefully about it was really not so very long as all that), they found themselves again in the bright and friendly confines of the Beilwoods, heading south. Timswitty provided civilized comforts for a day and a night, and then it was on to Lynchbany, passing to the west of Oglagia Towne. There they parted company with Gragelouth, leaving him to see to the melting down of his beloved gold into more manageable form.

Upon greeting her long-absent, wayward son, Talea alternated hugs and kisses with blows of such ferocity that it was uncertain as to whether she would love or beat him to death. Squill and Neena received similar attention from Mudge and Weegee (bear in mind that otters can deliver attention of bom kinds at twice the rate of the fastest human).

When everyone’s respective offspring had recovered from their shower of affection and concurrent beating, there was a formal gathering at Clothahump’s tree. As the wizard’s dimensional expansion spell had not been designed to accommodate individuals of Snaugenhutt’s bulk, the rhino waited outside, placidly cropping the fresh grass.