neetha Napew - Son Of Spellsinger

“Then why get rid o’ it?” Squill and Neena had moved to stand next to their father. Weegee looked on and tapped one foot threateningly.

“Because it is unbelievably dangerous. Because truth kills.” He glanced up at his colleague. “An appropriate spellsong might be best, Jon-Tom. Send it away. Far away.”

“Wait a minute, now!” Mudge ignored Weegee’s warning glare. “I’ve somethin’ to say in this.”

“So does we.” Squill huddled close to his father, sister, and Buncan.

Jon-Tom eyed his son. “You side with them in this?” Buncan nodded stiffly. “Well,” the spellsinger sighed, “it’s not the first time we’ve disagreed.”

“Then let it be as you wish.” Everyone looked in surprise at Clothahump. “I wash my hands of it. Experience is the best instructor, and evidently I am not. Jon-Tom?”

The spellsinger glanced uncertainly at Talea, then back down at his mentor. “If you’re going to have nothing more to do with it, then neither will I.”

“Good!” Mudge stepped forward and put his arms around the device, then hesitated. “Are you goin’ to stop us from takin’ it out o’ ‘ere, mates?”

“Not at all.” Clothahump had turned away and was busying himself with his equipment. “Do with it what you will. Just keep it well away from my tree.”

“Oh, that we’ll do, sor!” With Buncan’s help the otter began wrestling the mechanism toward the doorway. Squill and Neena trailed behind. “Beggin’ your pardon if we also keep all the money we’re goin’ to make with it.”

Talea and Weegee stood together in the doorway to watch the three otters and one young human disappear down the extended hallway. Mudge’s mate glanced worriedly back over her shoulder.

“Great Clothahump, do you think they’ll be all right?”

The wizard sniffed. “I am too old to argue with children, but I sincerely hope so. Where the inimitable truth is involved, who can say what might happen?”

The two ladies, one gray of fur, toe other red of hair, were not comforted.

The next day, the expectant confidants sauntered full of anticipation into Mudge’s favorite Lynchbany watering hole. Espying several acquaintances at a central gaming table, the otter wandered over and sat down nearby, making convenient seat of the unprotesting Veritable. Buncan, Squill, and Neena hung by the bar, sipping what liquid the bartender would provide them, and watched.

An elegantly clad and coiffured weasel pushed back his dealer’s cap and gestured at the box. “What’s that, friend? Some sort of magical device?” His playing companions chuckled over their cards and dice.

“Some sort,” confessed Mudge with a smug smile.

A husky badger frowned as he tugged at his black leather vest. “You been dealing with that turtle again?”

“Actually, mates, me pups an’ their friend brought this little toy back from a far-distant land, recent-like.” He nodded in the direction of the bar. Neena waved back prettily.

“Nice-looking girl you got there, water rat,” commented the weasel approvingly. He was sucking on a stick saturated with keep-awake.

“Just keep your bleedin’ paws an’ mind on the cards, Sucrep,” said Mudge warningly. “I’ve always suspected you o’ unhealthy goin’s-on.” Reaching down, he patted the Veritable fondly. “In fact, this little box is about to answer me a question I’ve been wonderin’ about for years.”

The smirking weasel attended to his dealing. “Why you can’t get it up anymore?”

“Somethin’ not quite as personal. Mind if I buy in?”

Sucrep readily shifted to one side. “Your money is always welcome at mis table, Mudge. Especially since you leave so much of it here.”

The game continued as before, coins changing their position in front of the various players according to the flash of dice and cards. Beneath Mudge, the Veritable was silent. Mudge won some and lost some, but as was usually the case his luck attended more frequently to the latter than to the former.

A kinkajou emitted its eerie, high-pitched giggle as he collected a pot. “Thet box mey be full of megeek, but et hesn’t mede you a beeter kerd pleyer.”

“That’s true,” declared the Veritable suddenly.

Amidst general laughter Mudge leaned over and glowered at his makeshift metal pew. “I don’t recall askin’ for your opinion just yet. Whose side are you .on ‘ere, anyway?”

“You know what side,” the Veritable replied calmly.

“Can it do anything besides talk?” asked a heavy set hog curiously.

Mudge straightened and forced himself to smile. “It tells the blinkin’ truth. Always. Every time.”

“Interesting.” A wolf clad in rough muslin peered over his cards. “So it will tell us if you are cheating.” He leaned forward. “Tell me something, box.”

“ ‘Ere now.” Mudge half rose in his seat. ‘ Tis my device! I’ll be the one to ask it any bloody questions.”

“Sit down and shut up, river rat,” said the wolf dangerously. “Box?”

“I am the Grand Veritable,” announced the device stiffly.

“Right then, Grand Veritable. Has Mudge here been cheating on us?”

“Not today,” the Veritable declared positively.

“Oh well, then.” The wolf relaxed and studied his cards.

“See there?” Mudge permitted himself a sneer of self-satisfaction. “I’ve never cheated on you, Ragregren.”

As soon as he said it, he was sorry.

“That’s not true.” The Veritable was inexorable.

The wolf blinked. “What’s that?”

“Nothin’, mate. Nothin’. See to your cards.” To the Veritable the otter hissed, “Turn your bloody self off until I ask for you!”

“Sorry. The truth doesn’t work that way. Once you call it up, it just sort of sticks around.”

“I asked what was said.” Putting his cards aside (facedown), the wolf rose, an imposing figure on the far side of the table, and again addressed the box. “Grand Veritable, when has the river rat cheated us before?”

“I can only tell the truth,” the grid declared apologetically. “I cannot read the future or the past.”

“I never cheated you, Ragregren! The damned thing’s confused.”

The burly wolf was staring at him hard. “You just told us yourself that it couldn’t lie.”

“I can’t,” added the Veritable for good measure.

“Then you have cheated at this table before.” The wolf pushed his chair back.

“I bloody well ‘ave not!” Mudge was sputtering wildly. “You . . . ‘tis you who’ve done the cheatin’!”

“Don’t try to worm your way out of this, river rat. I’m not the one who’s been cheating here.”

“Not today,” declared the Veritable cheerfully.

The wolf froze. “What’s that?”

“You’ve cheated before, but you’re not cheating today. Actually, the one who is cheating today is that hog over there.”

“I beg your pardon?” said the hog. He shrank back in his seat as both Mudge and Ragregren turned to glare at him. “There must be some mistake.”

“You’ve been winning an awful lot today, Bulmont,” the wolf muttered suspiciously.

The hog drew himself up. “You’ve no right to accuse me just because I am a better dice thrower man you, Ragregren.”

“But you’re not a better dice thrower,” declared the Veritable.

“My dice are clean,” the hog protested.

“Indeed they are,” agreed the machine.

“Ah, you see?” Bulmont looked greatly relieved.

Mudge nudged his seat with a sandaled foot. “Explain yourself, not-so-Grand Veritable.”

“It’s quite simple. The weasel who calls himself Sucrep always deals appropriately to the porcine one. Therefore, the individual Bulmont need not worry about his dice, because his cards are correctly loaded even before he can throw. I suspect that at an appropriate time the two will split the hog’s winnings.”