Buncan knew he was pushing his luck by staying. If not Clothahump or his father, the quick-eyed, sharp-eared Mulwit was sure to spot him soon. That would lead to accusatory questions he would be unable to satisfactorily answer. But fascination held him in the hallway.
The Grand Veritable, the merchant Gragelouth had called it. Reality or delusion, it had certainly provoked Clothahump. What could be formidable enough to cause the great wizard to adamantly refuse to acknowledge so much as its possible existence? What could frighten the all-powerful Clothahump that badly?
“The soldier Juh Phit spoke of it in more efficacious terms.” Gragelouth dug at a furry ear.
“How like a mercenary,” Clothahump murmured.
“He said that possession could make one wealthy beyond imagination. That any desire could be fulfilled if one but learned how to use the Veritabletproperly.”
“The true horrors always bewitch,” said Clothahump. “The Grand Veritable does not exist, and if it does, it is best left alone.” He stared evenly at his nocturnal visitor. “The fate of your Juh Phit should be proof enough of that. Continue to pursue this rumor and you will surely meet a similar end.” He turned abruptly on Jon-Tom, jabbing a finger in his direction.
“As for you, associate, I know how your mind works. Put aside all such thoughts. Besides, your mate would cut you off at the knees if you proposed anything.”
“Wasn’t going to,” Jon-Tom mumbled.
“We have ample work to keep us busy, and I need you here. Even if I did not, I would do everything in my power to stop you from pursuing this dangerous rumor.”
“I’m not afraid of rumors.” Out in the hall, Buncan felt an unexpected surge of pride. “Talea, however, is another matter.” Buncan slumped.
“Deal solely with those nightmares which have been domesticated by sleep,” Clothahump advised his human colleagues, “and leave the real ones to the reckless.” He turned back to face the sloth. “You have come far to see us, merchant. To what purpose?”
“I think what Juh Phit spoke of as he lay dying in my arms is worthy of further investigation, but I have no experience in matters mystical. I thought to seek assistance.” The sloth’s persistence in the face of Clothahump’s daunting skepticism was admirable, Duncan mused.
“You intend to pursue this matter purely in the spirit of intellectual inquiry, of course.” The wizard stared knowingly at his guest.
“I am a merchant, a trader in goods and stores.” Gragelouth showed the upturned palms of heavy, clawed hands. “I do not deny that I seek profit alongside elucidation. Tell me: With proper supervision could not this Veritable be a force for good?”
“No, never!” Clothahump insisted vehemently. “It can only cause divisiveness and disruption, destruction and death. On this the old tales are explicit. I would not trust its possession even to myself.”
“You can at least allow as how someone else might hold a differing opinion.” The merchant wasn’t afraid to defend his ground, Jon-Tom thought approvingly.
“Anyone is entitled to an opinion about hearsay,” Clothahump grunted. Searching a drawer in his plastron, he removed a small cube of something green and odious, plopped it in his mouth, and chewed reflectively as he slammed the drawer shut. “You’ll get no help from me. I’m too old to go chasing after dangerous rumors.”
“You’ve been ‘getting old’ for a hundred and fifty years,” Jon-Tom commented.
The turtle nodded. “And believe me, nothing gets old faster than getting old.” He sighed heavily. “If you want my advice, traveler, you’ll go back to your trading and forget this nonsense. If it’s nothing but rumor you’ll perish in the seeking of it, and if it’s at all for real, you’ll perish in the finding of it. I won’t charge you for this little conference,” he said, displaying uncharacteristic generosity. “Disillusionment is costly enough.”
Having tried every ploy he could think of, Gragelouth had nothing more to say. Clothahump shifted in his chair. “Do you have lodging for the night?”
The sloth shrugged wide shoulders, looking even sadder than usual. “Many times have I had to bed down with my wagon and team.” “It’s late, and a ways to Lynehbany,” the turtle murmured.
“I can make a suitable room for you here. Dimensional expansion. One of my better spells.”
The sloth looked up, nodding gratefully. “You are as hospitable as you are discouraging. I accept.” He reached for the purse attached to his wide belt. “I will pay—”
“Not now.” Clothahump waved magnanimously. “Even absurd tales have their uses. One must balance enlightenment with entertainment. This is fortunate for you, elsewise I might have turned you into a cockroach as penance for interrupting my sleep.” The sloth started, sleepy eyes suddenly wide. Jon-Tom was quick to reassure him.
“Clothahump has a unique sense of humor.”
The wizard chose not to comment as he rose and lumbered on short, stumpy legs toward the far portal. “Come, traveler, and we’ll see to your sleeping arrangements. Your body type would, I think, prefer a particularly soft bed. Or perhaps a low-slung hammock?”
Jon-Tom rose, shaking out his cape behind him. “It’s late. I’d better be getting back.”
No need to linger to overhear final farewells, Buncan knew. Turning in the darkness, he felt carefully along the wall as he retraced his steps. Soon he was back at the front door, which yielded silently to his touch. Out in the glade then, and moments later safely back among the friendly shadows of the silent Bellwoods. Heading home with the hope that Talea hadn’t checked his room in his absence. Even if she had, he’d prepared an elaborate and, he hoped, convincing excuse. In the event of total disbelief, the last thing she would suspect was that he’d been off spying on his father and Clothahump.
His head was awhirl with what he’d just overheard. Too much to contain, it spilled over into ancillary hopes and dreams, washing reality aside. Not to mention common sense.
It was news he had to share with others, and soon.
CHAPTER 6
“So this Garglemouth—”
“Gragelouth,” Buncan corrected him.
“So ‘e were a merchant from far away, an’ a sloth.” Squill dug his feet into the squishy sand of the riverbank. “Wot was ‘e, besides slothful?”
They were on the beach which struck out into the current on an upper bend of the Shortstub. Vest and pants bundled nearby, Neena cavorted in the water, a sliver of brown sleekness arcing through the silver. Like any other non-otter, Buncan could only look on enviously.
“Experienced and well-traveled,” he told Squill.
“Wealthy?”
“Hard to say. Sloths as a general rule aren’t very forthcoming.”
“Don’t see many in the Bellwoods.”
“This one had a wagon and pair.”
“Came a long way, ‘e did, to harangue mister hardshell.” Squill evicted a small freshwater crab with a toe, watched it scurry for the water. “This ‘ere Grand Veritable ‘e were prattlin’ about. Sounds special.”
“Clothahump doesn’t think it exists.”
Locating a nice palm-sized rock, Squill aimed and attempted to hit his sister the next tune she broke the surface. She dodged the missile with ease. “Accordin’ to wot you’re tellin’ me, mate, of beak-face spent a lot ‘o time listenin’. Wot do that tell you?”
“That Clothahump is kind to strangers.”
“Tell me another! The old bugger’s a grump.”
Buncan skipped a smooth stone of his own across the placid surface. He was stronger than Squill, but not as quick. “Then we’re left to consider the alternative, which is that mere was some substance to what the trader was saying.”