neetha Napew - Son Of Spellsinger

Sucrep said nothing. He didn’t have to. The look on his face as the keep-awake stick fell from his lips was revelation enough.

“The cursed container lies!”

“I do not,” replied the Veritable quietly. “Check beneath the table where he sits. There is a hidden compartment containing the requisite additional cards.”

With a roar the wolf lunged. Displaying the agility for which his kind was noted, Sucrep dove beneath the table. Bulmont made a frantic attempt to sweep up the last pot, only to be bowled over chair and all by the infuriated badger. The kinkajou reached for the coins, froze as Mudge’s stiletto slammed into the table between two of the fruit-eater’s slim fingers.

The otter grinned thinly. “I think we’ll divide up this pot a bit differently, wot?” The kinkajou nodded slowly, men brought his other hand up and around. It held a bottle, which shattered against Mudge’s feathered cap.

“Oi!” yelled Squill. “Dad’s in trouble!” Together he, Neena, and Buncan rushed to join the fray. With a sigh, the bartender ducked down behind his heavy wooden barrier.

“You’d better stay out of this, Buncan!”

Startled at hearing his name, Buncan paused and looked around for the speaker. When the admonition was repeated, he saw that its source was the now sinister metal box.

“Why?” he demanded to know as he prepared to fend off any attackers. By this time the tavern existed in a state of utter pandemonium.

“Because you’re not half the fighter you think you are.”

“What are you talking about? I’m as good as the otters or Jon-Tom.”

“No, you’re not. You’re liable to get yourself killed. And that’s . . .”

“The truth; I know, I know.” Confused and uncertain, he hunkered down beneath the table. “ ‘Ello, mate.”

He was startled to see his friends folded up nearby. “You two too?”

Squill nodded. “We thought it best to take the bloody thing’s advice. It ‘asn’t been wrong so far. Besides, me mum’d ‘ave me arse if I let Neena be ‘urt in some bleedin’ bar brawl.”

“Why worry about her? She’s a better fighter than you,” announced the Veritable helpfully.

“Don’t act the mechanical twit,” groused the otter. “When we’re wrestlin’ I always win.” “That’s right,” agreed Neena. “She lets you win,” said the Veritable. “I do not!” Neena glared at the box but wouldn’t meet her brother’s querulous gaze.

“That is a lie,” stated the Veritable with quiet aplomb.

“I’ll show you who’s the better fighter!” In an instant, and for the first time in some while, the two otters were rolling across the floor, locked in each other’s antagonistic embrace.

“Let ‘em fight,” Buncan muttered wearily. “When they’ve had enough, I’ll spellsing them apart.”

“You cannot spellsing,” observed the Veritable. “You can only play the duar.”

“Well, at least I can do that better than anyone,” Buncan replied irritably.

“You cannot. Jon-Tom is better.”

Buncan’s eyes widened. “I’m better. He’s said so himself.”

“He flatters you to build your confidence.”

Buncan rested his chin on his knees as he turned away. The brawl surged around him. An astonishing mixture of roars, bellows, squeaks, yelps, and howls reverberated the length and breadth of the tavern. “I need the otters’ singing now, but if I keep working at it I’ll be able to spellsing all by myself someday.”

The Veritable was relentless, but not insensitive. It spoke softly. “You will never be able to spellsing by yourself, young human.”

Buncan turned sharply. “Why don’t you just shut up for a while, okay?”

“Truth is always in great demand,” the Veritable whispered, “for everyone except ourselves.”

A chair slammed into the table over his head. Being fashioned of honest wood, it did not break, unlike the wineglass which shattered like thin ice on the floor nearby. Eventually Buncan spoke again.

“I’m beginning to understand what Clothahump was talking about.”

“No, you’re not. You’re too young to understand. You’re just poking around the periphery. The meaning of truth is not so easily grasped. You seriously overestimate your perceptual and analytical capabilities as well as your martial skills and duar playing.”

“I didn’t ask you for criticism.”

“Just truth. Only truth. Always truth. Hurts, doesn’t it?”

Another chair came sliding by. It still contained its most recent occupant, who was in no condition to escape its confines. Buncan leaned out from beneath the table for a better look.

“We need to get you out of here before one of these happy, thature adults tries to make off with you. Though at this point I’m not so sure I’d fight anyone to keep you.” He quickly saw that Squill and Neena would be no help, still intent as they were on pursuing their most recent sibling altercation.

From the time they’d entered the tavern less than an hour had elapsed, and in that brief span a little truth had reduced a placid establishment and its contented patrons to bloody chaos.

The path to the front door was blocked by battling customers. That was where the police would tenter anyway. Dragging the Veritable by its cord, he worked his way around behind the bar and found himself in the company of its owner, a corpulent pangolin. Semiprecious stones and sequins sparkled among his scales.

“My beautiful gaming room!” he wailed.

“You have to help me get out of here.” Buncan hugged the Veritable close.

“No, you don’t,” the grid informed the tavern owner cheerily. “It’s not necessary.”

“Shut up.” Though he doubted it would do any good, Buncan slammed a fist down on top of the device. It made him feel better.

“What’s that?” The pangolin was eyeing the Veritable with sudden interest.

“Nothing,” Buncan growled. “A toy.”

The pangolin looked uncertain. “I can’t imagine what started this.”

“He did,” declared the Veritable. “He and his friends. Three otters.”

The proprietor’s voice rose. “So! You are the offspring of that tree-dwelling spellsinger, are you not? Wonderful! I can sue for damages. The wizard’s guild shall hear of this!”

“Watch yourself,” said Buncan warningly. “You can’t sue a spellsinger.”

“Of course you can,” chirped the box.

This time Buncan gave it a swift, hard kick. It rolled over and came to rest right side up. The radiance within was as strong and implacable as ever.

“You can’t get rid of the truth that easily, my young human friend.”

“How about if I dump you in the deepest part of the river?”

“Won’t work. The truth has a tendency to cling.”

“Truth, eh?” The pangolin looked delighted. “Then I can sue a spellsinger for damages?”

“Yes. But you wouldn’t want to.”

The narrow-faced insectivore entrepreneur blinked. “Why not?”

“Because you’ve been running a crooked house here all along.”

“I, crooked? What are you saying?”

“All these ‘decorative’ mirrors. In the walls, in the ceiling.” The plug stiffened, the prongs pointing upward. “Some are made of one-way glass. You have agents in the crawl spaces above them, spying on the games below. They report to your own plants among the players, who adjust their games accordingly. A large portion of their illegal winnings goes to the house. To you. They skim just enough off the legitimate games so that none of your patrons become suspicious.”

“Rend-in-a-box! Accursed furniture of the Nether Regions!” The enraged owner searched wildly for a weapon.

“Easy to curse the truth!” shouted the Veritable as Buncan hefted it in his arms and rushed toward the back of the tavern in hopes of finding an exit. “Hard to deal with it!”