neetha Napew - Son Of Spellsinger

A large bottle of amber liquid exploded against the wall to his left as he dumped the Veritable into a garbage chute and dove through behind it. It deposited both of them atop a fetid mound of quite indescribable foulness in the alley behind the establishment. Struggling to his feet, he stumbled free of the rancid hillock and gathered the Veritable in his arms.

“Which is the safest way to go?” He glanced wildly to left and right, scanning both ends of the alley.

“To your left.” The Veritable spoke without hesitation.

As he staggered off in the indicated direction, Buncan rounded a corner and found himself face-to-face with Ragregren, the wolf who’d been at Mudge’s table and who was largely responsible for initiating the melee inside. Blood trickled from a gash on his forehead and one ear dangled loose, having been bitten almost completely through. His rustic attire was in disarray, stained with liquor and blood only partially his own. One paw gripped the amputated leg of a chair, and he was breathing hard.

“You!” he rumbled darkly. “You and that, that unmentionable thing are the cause of this!” With a cry, he charged, holding the chair leg over his furry head.

Buncan ducked, and the makeshift club smashed into the wall behind him. “I thought you said this was the best way to go! You lied!”

“I never lie,” said the Veritable primly. “My hearing is most excellent. I overheard the owner giving directions to his minions. They lie in wait at the other end of mis passageway, and would most certainly have killed you had you gone that way. This one is merely likely to just beat you up.”

“You can count on it!” Ragregren raised the club over bis head and brought it down sharply. Unable to reach his sword, Buncan attempted to block the blow with the only shield at hand.

The club struck the Veritable. Buncan braced himself for the impact, but surprisingly mere was none. No shock, no recoil. The chair leg fragmented into splinters, the splinters disintegrated and became sawdust, the sawdust sifted to the ground as evanescent yellow glitter.

“Violence will never break the truth,” the Veritable declared positively. “Submerge it sometimes, blanket it sometimes, but destroy it, never.”

Buncan pursed his lips. “Neat trick.”

“Damn your eyes!” the wolf howled. “Damn you and your accursed device!” He whirled and ran down the alley in search of another weapon.

Buncan waited until Ragregren was out of sight. The distant echo of battle still resounded inside the tavern. “Is it safe to go on now?”

“Yes.”

“No, I mean really safe?”

“Really safe. Insofar as I am able to judge the truth of the situation.”

An inquisitive crowd had gathered outside the tavern. They evaporated wordlessly when a wagon full of uniformed skunks, civet cats, and zorillas arrived. The police would quickly put an end to the conflict, Buncan knew.

Among the hastily retreating spectators, one face stood out. He ran toward her, waving feebly.

“Mariana! It’s me, over here!”

She didn’t slow until they met behind a general store. One didn’t want to be anywhere in the vicinity when the police began their work. Her expression fully conveyed her reaction to his appearance.

“Buncan? What happened to you?” She nodded in the direction of the tavern. “What’s going on in there?”

“I don’t know.”

“A lie,” said the Veritable.

Ignoring the observation, she peered curiously at the machine. “What’s that?”

“Never mind. Have you any transportation?”

“My riding lizard, but . . .”

“Can I borrow it? Just for a short while.” He glanced nervously back toward the tavern, where shrieks and screams indicated that Lynchbany’s finest had set to work among the miscreants inside. “I have to get out of town fast.” He held up the Veritable. “This is something the great Clothahump and my father need to deal with.”

She wrinkled her nose and took a step back from him. “My lizard’s not with me. I walked into town.”

“That’s a falsehood. It’s close by.”

Her pretty face twisted as she glared at the box. “Are you calling me a liar?”

“Of course. It’s my job.”

She spoke as she continued to back away. “What is this, Buncan? Some kind of depraved necromancy propounded by your father and that ridiculous turtle he works with?”

“No, no, it’s nothing like that,” he implored her. “It’s something I found, Squill and Neena and I.”

“Those otters. No wonder.” She hesitated. “Maybe you’re not responsible, then. I guess . . . I guess I could do something.”

“You’ve got to help me, Mariana. You know how deeply I feel about you.”

“Lie,” burped the box.

“It’s not! Mariana’s a good friend.”

“Another lie.” Buncan gazed at his loquacious burden in horror. “You just want to get into her pants. You’ve been dreaming of it for years.” With great difficulty the mechanism managed to inject something like an electronic leer into its artificial voice.

Mariana gaped at the Veritable, then up at Buncan. “You bastard! I thought you loved me. And here I’ve been saving myself for you.”

“Lies, lies, lies,” the box chorused happily. “You’ve already slept with more of this young human’s friends than he could imagine.”

Buncan swallowed hard. “Mariana, can this be true?”

“Of course it can be true,” declared the Veritable. “I just said it was, didn’t I?”

“Damn you!” Buncan raised the machine over his head, intending to smash it to the pavement. But when he looked to Mariana for approval she was already gone, lost in the crowded streets. Slowly he brought the box back down.

Then he started running, grim-faced, through the throng and toward the edge of town. As he ran, the Grand Veritable provided a running commentary, as it were.

“That one there, the large man, has a vial of poison in his pocket that he intends for his mate’s lover. And that one next to him is—”

“Be silent!” Without much hope but not knowing what else to do, Buncan slapped a hand over the grid.

“Sorry,” the muffled voice of the Veritable replied, “but I’m starting to feel really good. Warmed up. There are so many suppressed truths about that need telling.”

“I don’t want to hear them!”

“Yes, you do.”

“Please,” Buncan mumbled as he flew along, “have some pity.”

The Veritable’s voice was like the wind off a glacier. “There is no pity in truth. Like most people, you fear it.”

“And with good reason,” panted Buncan as he raced toward the forest.

CHAPTER 27

Somehow he made it to the familiar, tranquil glade. Jon-Tom and Clothahump weren’t present, but a perplexed Mulwit let him in and made him comfortable while they waited.

“I tried to warn you,” said Clothahump when he and Jon-Tom finally returned, “but you would not listen to me.” He took a deep breath, expanding his carapace. “Hardly anyone under a hundred ever listens to me.”

“Mttdge never listened to anyone, me included.” Jon-Tom peered anxiously into his exhausted son’s sweat-streaked, grime-laden face. Behind them the Grand Veritable once again reposed quietly on the workshop bench, a picture of mechanical innocence.

Buncan wiped dirt from his eyes. “I never realized how dangerous the truth could be.”

“Civilization is not founded on absolute truths,” Clothahump declaimed importantly, “but only on those the majority of people can deal with, and those are precious few.”

“Truth,” the Veritable observed.

“Nobody asked you,” Jon-Tom growled. Buncan kept a watchful eye on the device, as though at any moment the twin metal prongs on the plug might metamorphose into actual, dripping fangs.