Neena leaned close to her brother. ‘ I think ‘e’s sayin’ that we don’t quite measure up to the local median, cleanliness-wise.”
“You will have an opportunity to purify yourselves as much as possible prior to your appearance before the Magistrate,” the rat was telling them as they turned a corner. The street opened onto a landscaped square paved in white limestone. Citizens gathered around the milky marble fountain in the center stared openmouthed as the parade passed.
On the far side of the square they were marched into a large building and made to wait in a spacious chamber while the commandant rat conversed with a colleague behind a desk. Asked to hand over their weapons and personal effects, there was little they could do but comply. To Buncan’s chagrin, he was also compelled to turn in his duar. That done, most of their escort departed. The remainder escorted and shoved them, none too gently, down a short corridor and into a large barred vestibule. Even the odd diagonal bars had been painted white.
Jail it might be, but the cell was as spotless as the antechamber outside.
Squill grabbed the bars and yelled after the departing rat and his companion, the chief jailer (a shrew of unpleasant disposition and appearance).
“You’d better not try to keep us ‘ere any longer than we’re willin’ to go along with this! We’re powerful sorcerers, we are.”
The rats looked back and grinned thinly. “Of course you are. But tell me: If you’re such masters of the arcane arts, why not use your magic to properly cleanse yourselves?”
“We are clean, dammit!” Gripping the bars, Squill hopped up and down in frustration.
“Not by civilized standards.” The officers turned a corner and vacated the corridor outside the cells.
Neena took a seat on one of the two benches that hung suspended from a wall . . . no doubt to make it easier to clean under, Buncan mused.
“Well, we didn’t ‘ave no trouble findin’ a place to spend the night.”
Buncan tried to put the best possible light on their situation. “This isn’t so bad. Inconvenient, but hardly dangerous. We’ll answer their questions and pay their fine, as Gragelouth surmises, and then we’ll get the hell out of Hygria as fast as we can replenish our supplies.”
“My wagon and team,” the merchant mumbled. Buncan eyed him unsympathetically.
“You’re the one who said to cooperate.”
The sloth regarded him with atypical sharpness. “You saw how many there were. We would have not stood a chance in a close-quarter battle. The intelligent fighter picks the time that best suits him.”
“Righty-ho.” Squill spread his arms wide. “Why, we’re in a much better position to get out o’ this compost ‘cap now than we were afore.”
“At least we’re not dead,” Gragelouth shot back, showing uncharacteristic pugnacity. “I have watched. You need time to compose your spellsongs. We possessed no such margin for chronological error when we were surrounded.”
“We could magic ourselves out o’ ‘ere,” Neena murmured, “except . . .”
“No duar,” Buncan finished for her. “We may have to try and clean ourselves up to meet their standards.”
“You weren’t payin’ attention, mate.” Squill ran a paw down the diagonal bars. “That’ll just get us an audience with the local judge, not out o’ ‘ere. An’ wot ‘appens if no matter wot we do we can’t never get up to their bleedin’ high ‘standards’?” He showed bright teeth. “I don’t like bein’ pushed around.”
“They may only want our money,” Gragelouth observed.
“Maybe, maybe,” Squill murmured softly. “Or they might want everythin’ of ours, which they’ll confiscate while we rot away in this bleedin’ cell.”
“They won’t let us rot,” said his sister. “Wouldn’t be a clean thing to do.”
“Maybe, but I don’t think I want to ‘ang around to find out.” Gragelouth rose from where he’d been sitting and gazed up the corridor. “Someone is coming.”
It was the rat, flanked by a pair of strangely garbed woodchucks. Their attire was richly embroidered with a plethora of appliqu6d arcane symbols.
They halted outside the cell. The nearest woodchuck adjusted bifocal glasses. “What have we here?”
“They claim to be sorcerers.” The rat’s lips curled in an elegant sneer.
“Look more like vagrants to me,” commented the second, slightly taller woodchuck.
His associate nodded. “I am Multhumot, Senior Master of the Hidden Arts for Hygria. I do not believe, but I am willing to be convinced. If you are sorcerers, show me a sample of your skills.”
“You mean you’re gonna let us?” said Squill. “Right!”
“An effective demonstration will require more than enthusiasm.” The woodchuck’s tone was dry.
“We are sorry if we have unwillingly given any offense.” Gragelouth advanced from the back of the cell to the bars. “If you will but return to us our possessions, we will depart immediately.”
“It is too late for that.” The commandant was smiling. “You have committed grave offenses and must pay the penalty.” Gragelouth nodded his shaggy head, muttering. “It is as I suspected.”
“Oi, you were right, merchant.” Neena was staring at the rat. “That’s wot they were after all along. Tell me, bald-tail, is your conscience as clean as your butt?”
“I don’t know what you mean.” By his tone the commandant indicated that he knew exactly what she meant.
“Right.” Squill looked eager. “They want proof, let’s give ‘em some proof.”
“Maybe it would be better simply to pay the fine,” Gragelouth ventured uneasily.
“Stuff it, sloth,” said Squill. “This ‘ere’s personal now.”
“I need my instrument back.” Duncan did his best to affect an air of indifference.
“The Master wants to see magic, not music.” The rat snorted disdainfully.
Multhumot waved a hand. “Bring what he requests, but first check the interior for weapons and devices.” He eyed Duncan appraisingly. “This had best not be a joke, human. Do not think to toy with me.”
Buncan kept his expression carefully neutral.
A squirrel appeared with the duar. The cell door was opened and it was passed inside. Buncan cradled it lovingly, checking it thoroughly for damage. It appeared unharmed. Only when he was satisfied did he turn to the otters, who waited expectantly.
“Something simple,” he told them. “Just enough for a demonstration.”
4 ‘Ell, I wanted to flatten the ‘ole bleedin’ city.” Squill was unashamedly disappointed.
“ ‘Ow about we dissolve these bars?” Neena smiled sweetly at the rat. “Would that be adequate proof?” The commandant stiffened slightly. For the first time he looked less than completely confident. By contrast, the two wood-chucks evinced hardly any reaction.
“That would be interesting,” Multhumot’s associate admitted.
Buncan bowed slightly and commenced to follow the otters’ vocal lead.
“Got no freedom in this place
Time to get out an’ get on with the race
This place ‘ere stinks, this space ‘ere winks
Let’s waste this fokker and get back to our Stinks.
Us an’ our friends, that’s wot we thinks.”
The mist that materialized this time was dark and threatening. It coalesced into a compact cumulonimbus cloud which began first to rumble, then to flash ominously. Intrigued, the woodchucks held their ground while the commandant took a couple of steps toward the corridor exit.
Miniature lightning began to run up and down the restraining bars, curling around the metal while seeking the places where the bars were fixed to wall and floor. The strobing light cast the faces of spellsingers and player into barbaric relief. Beyond the corridor, guards and administrators garnered fearfully to listen.
Unperturbed, Multhumot raised both short arms and mumbled laconically. His colleague removed a flask from within his copious robes and began to sprinkle its contents on the bars. The fluid smelled powerfully of lemon and ammonia.