“How do you know that?” Buncan asked him. “This is the main road from Lynchbany to L’bor. Plenty of wagons pass this way.”
“Ain’t seen any,” Neena countered. “ Tis the slow season.”
“We’ll know right soon.” Squill spurred his mount on, and Buncan hurried to follow.
Were their parents missing them yet? he wondered. Following breakfast they’d taken then- best shot at a privacy spell. In theory Jon-Tom shouldn’t be able to track them now with magic. In theory. He shrugged. There was little more they could do to cover their tracks.
Legend said that his father and Mudge had helped stop the Plated Folk at the Jo-Troom Pass. Hard to believe it was the same person who spent much of his time puttering around the family tree, fixing leaky plumbing and barbecuing fish on the lawn out back. Could that person break through the straightforward solidity of a privacy spell?
He chucked the reins and the big skink hissed slightly, turning its narrow blindered head to look back at him.
“Come on, pick it up,” he told the uncomprehending animal. “We want to overtake this merchant before another night falls.” With poor grace the lizard increased its pace.
Evening was threatening to make its appearance when Squill suddenly brought his own mount to an abrupt halt. Buncan drew alongside, stopped. “What is it? Something the matter?”
“Don’t you ‘ear it?”
“I ‘ear it.” Neena was leaning forward and to one side, trying to see past her brother.
“Well, I don’t,” snapped Buncan.
“Why not? Your ears are bigger than ours.”
“But not as sharp. Above or below the water.”
“You’re always underwater, mate,” Squill told him. But affectionately.
Buncan followed the otters’ lead as they dismounted and secured their skinks to a nearby tree. Just as they had for years, they used the undergrowth to conceal their movements as they advanced. Only, Buncan knew that this time Squill and Neena weren’t playing. Maybe his hearing wasn’t as good as theirs, but he was equally adept at avoiding twigs and dry leaves.
It didn’t take long before he, too, could hear what had attracted Squill’s attention: many voices shouting and yelling. Only a couple were deep enough to suggest size. The rest were fairly high-pitched.
They came to a place where the forest thinned and they could see the road again. Stopped to one side was the merchant’s wagon. Thanks to his well-honed powers of memory and observation, Buncan was able to recognize it instantly from the single brief glimpse he’d had of it parked behind Clothahump’s tree.
Also, there was a large spellcharged sign on the side which periodically flashed in bright canary-yellow letters:GRAGELOUTH—MERCHANT & TRADER
The wagon rested on four thick-spoked, brightly painted wooden wheels. A single door interrupted the smooth lines of the stem. There was a built-in ladder which allowed access to the roof, and a pair of stairs bolted beneath the doorway. Pots, pans, and other household goods dangled from hempen and wire leaders like misshapen fruit. Two muscular, squat-bodied dray lizards yoked side by side stood placidly in front of the wagon, scratching at their blinders and sampling the ground with their flattened pink tongues.
Though the wagon faced away from them, they could see the merchant seated on the forebench. Hatless, his thick gray coat showed evidence of recent trimming. The long fur beneath his arms swayed as he argued with those who had surrounded him.
Standing near the front of the team and holding the harness of the lead lizard was a massive masked figure. The mask was natural, for the individual was a spectacled bear. He wore long pants, a dull hazel shirt, and a heavy leather cap. His size made him prominent among the sword- and ax-armed ringtail cats and raccoons who comprised the majority of the gang.
A tall, lithe, rather rakishly clad coatimundi stood nearest the wagon, gesturing animatedly in the merchant’s direction with a thin rapier. They could see Gragelouth flinch whenever the blade flicked too close. Brass studs glistened among the coati’s attire. Even at a distance Buncan could make out the diamond that sparkled in one of his prominent canines.
“Wot a bleedin’ marvelous opportunity!” Neena whispered. “We can rescue the silly sod an’ ingratiate ourselves to ‘im forever. ‘E’ll ‘ave to take us on.” She drew her short sword and took a step forward.
Buncan hastened to restrain her. “Wait a minute!” He raised his eyes above the brush line. “There’s. .half a dozen raccoons and ringtails, the coati, and the bear. There’s only three of us, and the bear’s a lot bigger than I am.”
“Righty-ho, mate,” agreed Squill cheerfully. “Them’s fair odds, they are.”
“Are you crazy? You’ve inherited Mudge’s bravado along with his lack of judgment. If we go charging out there we’re gonna get ourselves stomped. Don’t lose sight of why we’re here.” One of the ringtails was now peering curiously in their direction, and Buncan hurriedly ducked back down into the vegetation.
“You’re right, Bunkies.” Neena sheathed her sword. “We’re ‘ere to show this merchant ‘ow our spellsingin’ can ‘elp ‘im.” She rubbed her forepaws together. “So let’s get to it.”
Squill was less enthusiastic. He fingered his bow. “We might could take two or three of ‘em out with arrows before they pinned us. If we try singin’ first, we’ll give away both our position and the element o’ surprise.”
Buncan was unlimbering his duar. “Singing might surprise them. Or they might even ignore it. We can always resort to our weapons if it doesn’t work. If we don’t do something fast, they’ll kill the merchant and we might as well turn around and slink back home.”
The otter considered, then nodded. “Right-o, but ‘tis likely we’ll only get one chance. Keep your blades “andy.”
Buncan plucked lightly at the duar. A faint globule of pale-blue smoke arose from the nexus. He eyed his companions expectantly.
“Wot’ll we sing about?” Squill eyed his sister uncertainly. “Buncan?”
“Don’t ask me. You two are the lyricists.” He strained to see past them. The discussion at the wagon appeared to be taking a conclusive turn. If they didn’t hurry, a sword thrust would render moot whatever effort they expended. “Better get on with it. I have a feeling the hoods are getting tired of Gragelouth’s banter.”
“ ‘E must ‘ave somethin’ worth protecting or ‘e’d ‘ave given ‘em wot they want by now.” Neena leaned over to exchange hurried whispers with her brother.
Buncan waited nervously. If it came to a fight, he was bigger and probably stronger than any of the bandits save the bear, and nothing was quicker in combat than an otter. But there were eight of them, all much more experienced at real fighting than he or his Mends. The scarred dandy of a coati in particular looked like a tough customer.
None of which would matter if they could spellsing them aside. Hopefully the otters’ wits would prove as quick as then-feet.
“How shall I start off?” he muttered.
“Somethin’ slow and heavy,” Squill advised him. “Like when we called up the whale.”
“Okay, but let’s try and make this a little more low-key.” His fingers hovered above the strings, anxious to begin. “We don’t want to kill anyone if we can help it.”
“Why not?” Neena regarded him out of bright eyes.
“Because it’s messy. We don’t want to frighten off the merchant, either.”
Squill was staring in the wagon’s direction. “That rapier pokes ‘im any deeper an’ ‘e won’t be in any condition to do much o’ anything.” He turned back to his sister. “Ready, mush-mouth? On three. A one, a two, an’ a three . . .”
Buncan began to play.
“Rumble in the woods got no place to go
Bangin’ in the hood where it ain’t no show