Buncan’s nose twitched as the odor struck him, and he knew that the otters, with their more sensitive nostrils, could hardly be missing it.
A second cloud appeared in the corridor. It was an intense, brilliant white, sanctified and fluffy and shot through with silver. Under Multhumot’s direction it drifted purposefully toward the cell. Trying to ignore it, Buncan kept playing while the suddenly wary otters rapped on.
The ivory cloud made contact with the one which had spread itself along the bars. Ragged lightning erupted at the confluence, and the air was acrid with the smell of ozone. The dark nimbus Buncan and his friends had conjured began to break apart into tiny, harmless puffs.
There was a bright, actinic flash which caused everyone to blink. The smell of lemon-fresh and otherworldly room deodorizer was strong in the air. Though they sang and played on as determinedly as ever, Buncan and his companions were unable to regenerate the dark cloud.
“So much for your squalid sorcery.” Multhumot’s associate looked pleased. “We of Hygria can scrub it out of existence, wash it from this dimension, render it impotent through disinfective invocation. From now on this chamber will remain whiter than white and squeaky clean in spite of all your efforts to foul it through your outlander spellsinging.” Behind him the commandant, his confidence restored, beamed triumphantly.
“ ‘Ere, don’t let ‘em get away with that!” blurted Squill furiously. “Let’s ‘ave another go, mate.”
“I don’t know, Squill.” Buncan let his tired fingers fall from the strings, “I don’t feel too good right now. Maybe we’d better give it some thought.”
“Don’t back down on us now, Bunkile,” Neena implored him.
He forced himself to straighten. “All right. One more time.”
“Let’s really give it to the dirty buggers.” Squill bent to exchange ideas with his sister. When they had agreed on lyrics, they began to sing.
The vapor that boiled out of the duar this time was a throbbing, angry red that screeched and gibbered. The knife-edged lyrics of the otters were matched by the crimson blades that emerged from the coalescing fog. Seeking eagerly, they hissed up and down, looking for something to slice, as the cloud drifted inexorably toward the cell bars.
CHAPTER 9
The commandant’s expression fell and he retreated to the far end of the corridor, cowering near the portal. Though initially taken aback, the two woodchucks held their ground. As the threatening cloud drifted toward them, they lifted their arms and began to chant in tandem. Grasping arms emerged from the nimbus, reaching outward.
In response to the chant a second white cloud materialized. It was far more active than its predecessor had been, spinning and whirling until it had twisted itself into optimal dust-devil proportions. Buncan gaped as it spun toward the bars.
This time when the two clouds made contact there was no lurid flash of light, no crooked lightning. Only a deep, liquid gurgle. Buncan continued to play, the otters kept singing, and the pair of white-shrouded woodchucks waved their hands and chanted like crazy.
Gragelouth sat at the back of the cell, his gray-furred head resting in his hands, a sour expression on his face.
The cell bars began to vibrate. Soon the walls of the jail joined in sympathetic vibration. Wondering if maybe they hadn’t overdone it, Buncan played on. Mortar powdered and flaked off the walls, filling the air with limestone dust.
Angry as the otters’ rap was, then combined spellsinging was no match for the cyclonic cleanser the woodchucks had invoked. It tore the red cloud to bits, shredding malformed blades and arms, sweeping them into its central vortex. When the last vestige of crimson had been sucked invisible, the whirlwind shrank in upon itself, growing smaller and smaller until, with a fault puff of compressing air, it popped itself out of existence.
Their throats protesting mightily, the otters were forced to give it up. Buncan finished with a final desultory strum on the duar. The glow at its nexus faded. It was quiet in the cell once more.
And clean. Exceedingly clean.
“You see,” said Multhumot, “all the anger and fury in the Netherworld cannot stand against good hygiene, even in sorcery.” Perspiration stains were visible beneath his arms.
“We haven’t done anything,” Buncan argued. “It’s wrong to keep us locked up like this.”
Multhumot straightened his attire. “Either Kimmilpat or I will be on guard in the antechamber at all times. I warn you not to try anything.” He adopted a threatening mien . . . as threatening as a three-foot-high woodchuck could manage, anyway. “Thus far my colleague and I have only countered your necromancy. We have not assaulted you with our own. Rest assured you would not find our serious attentions pleasing. Therefore, I recommend that from now on you behave yourselves.”
“You don’t scare us, guv.” Squill had his face pressed between the bars. He looked back over bis shoulder. “C’mon, Buncan; let’s give ‘em another—”
“No.” Buncan put a comforting hand on the otter’s shoulder. “No more. Not now. It didn’t work, and I’m not ready to try again. Not just yet. If Clothahump were here . . . I saw bun use that kind of enchanted wind myself, only it wasn’t white.” He looked down the row of cells.
“Maybe there’s a better way out of here.” Another body was standing next to him: Gragelouth.
“What will happen to us?” the merchant asked mournfully of their captors.
“That is the concern of the city magistrate,” Multhumot replied. “I suspect you will be fined. To what degree I cannot say. Certainly you will be ordered to dispose of your filthy raiment prior to your court appearance.”
“I’m getting real tired of being called filthy,” Buncan muttered.
“I ain’t goin’ nowhere without me shorts,” Squill added.
“Wouldn’t ‘ave bothered Mudge,” his sister commented. “E spent plenty o’ time gaddin’ about without ‘is pants.”
The two plump white-shrouded wizards took their leave of the prisoners. The commandant smirked briefly at his charges before following in the woodchucks’ wake.
The evening meal did nothing to lighten the spirits of the incarcerated. It was as sterile and bland as their surroundings.
Squill took a couple of mouthfuls before shoving his bowl aside. “I can’t swallow any more o’ this swill.”
Neena had already reached the same conclusion. “Who could?” Her nose and whiskers twitched.
“It is quite nutritious. I have had worse.” Gragelouth seemed to be ingesting the contents of his bowl with no difficulty. The otters watched him in disbelief.
“I guess my stomach’s not as strong as yours, merchant.” Buncan set his own portion aside as he considered the empty corridor. “Another day of this and we’ll be too weak to think of escaping.”
“You notice no one said ‘ow long we might be stuck in ‘ere before we get to see this ‘ere bloody magistrate?” Neena pointed out. “It could take weeks.”
Squill sat on the floor, leaning against the back wall. “I don’t give a shit ‘ow bad they torture me: I ain’t givin’ up me pants.”
“There’s only one wizard on duty,” Buncan murmured. “Maybe if we came up with a different song fast enough . . .”
“I have a feeling his colleague is not far away.”
Buncan turned to regard Gragelouth. The sloth spoke patiently. “You have shown your spellsinging ability convincingly if not overpoweringly. Our overweight opponents may be prepared to call in additional sorceral assistance if they think it necessary. I think we must seek another way to abet our departure.”
Duncan tried to avoid the odor rising from his food bowl. “Jon-Tom would know what to sing to get out of this place.”