Into the Thinking Kingdoms (17 page)
Read Into the Thinking Kingdoms Online
Authors: Alan Dean Foster
Tags: #Fiction, #Fantasy, #General, #FIC009000
Raising his free hand so that the palm faced the swordsman, Ehomba replied softly as they began to leave the urban center of Tethspraih behind. “I am not saying that I agree with him entirely, Simna, but perhaps it would be good if we measured out our words with a little more care and forethought.”
“So most of it is waste? Most of what we say has no meaning, or makes no sense, or is of no use to anyone just because he thinks so? Our words are just so much noise hanging in the air, containing no more sense than the songs of the birds or the buzz of bees? What we speak is—”
“Simna, my friend—be silent. For a little while, anyway.” Ehomba smiled encouragingly at the smaller man.
“Then you do agree with him?” The irascible swordsman would not let the matter drop. “You think we do talk too much, about nothing of substance?”
“Sorry, my friend.” Smiling apologetically, Ehomba pointed with his free hand to the side of his head. “My ears are still full of water, and I cannot hear you properly.”
Simna had a ready reply, but decided to set it aside. Was the cursed cat smiling also? That was absurd. Cats could not smile. Yawn, snarl, tense—but not smile. Storing his rejoinder in an empty corner of his memory, he traipsed on in silence, knowing that he could summon it forth for delivery at a later time. He never did, of course.
Both Ahlitah and Ehomba were counting on it.
XII
T
he country ruled over by the enlightened Count Tyrahnar Cresthelmare proved as welcoming and hospitable as Tethspraih had been treacherous. They were passed through the border gate by curious but cheerful guards, who assured the blunt, inquisitive Simna that in Phan not only would no one try to change his way of thinking, no one would give a damn what he thought.
he country ruled over by the enlightened Count Tyrahnar Cresthelmare proved as welcoming and hospitable as Tethspraih had been treacherous. They were passed through the border gate by curious but cheerful guards, who assured the blunt, inquisitive Simna that in Phan not only would no one try to change his way of thinking, no one would give a damn what he thought.
Never absent for very long in the worst of times, the spring returned to the swordsman’s step and the glint to his eye as they accepted a ride into Phan City from a farmer with a wagonload of hay. The city itself put even prosperous Tethspraih to shame. Not only were the buildings more impressive and the people more elegantly attired, but there was a definite and distinctive sense of style about the modest metropolis that exceeded anything the wide-eyed Ehomba had ever seen. The more worldly Simna, of course, was less impressed.
“Nice little burg.” He was leaning back with his hands behind his head and using Ahlitah’s chest for a pillow. Rocked to sleep by the wagon’s motion, the big cat did not object. “Nothing like Creemac Carille, or Boh-yen, or Vloslo-on-the-Drenem, but it does have a certain dash.” He inhaled deeply, a contented expression on his face. “First sign of an upscale community, long bruther: The air doesn’t stink.”
“I wonder if all these little kingdoms the sheepherder told us about are as prosperous as Tethspraih and Phan?” Ehomba was admiring the graceful people of many hues and their fine clothing. Here and there he even spotted an occasional ape, suggesting that the Phanese could boast of more cosmopolitan commercial connections than the more insular inhabitants of Tethspraih. Despite the ornate and even florid local manner of dressing, he was not made self-conscious by his own poor shirt, kilt, and sandals. It would never have occurred to Etjole Ehomba to be embarrassed by such a thing. While the Naumkib admired and even aspired to pleasing attire and personal decoration, not one of them would ever think of judging another person according to his or her appearance.
“Off ye go, boys.” The hay farmer called back to them from his bench seat up front. “And be sure and see to it that great toothy black monster gets off with ye!”
Digging his fingers deep into Ahlitah’s thick mane, Ehomba shook the cat several times until it blinked sleepy eyes at him. Rumbling deep in his throat, the litah took its own good time stretching, yawning, and stepping down from the back of the wagon. The farmer was not about to rush the operation and, for that matter, neither was the herdsman. No matter how friendly and affectionate when awake, a cat half asleep was always potentially dangerous.
Taking note of the oversized feline, a few stylishly outfitted pedestrians spent time staring in his direction. But no one panicked, or looked down their nose at the tired, sweaty travelers, or whispered snide comments under their breath. Ehomba’s excellent hearing told him this was so, and in response to his query, Ahlitah confirmed it.
“This seems to be an unusually cultivated clustering of humans,” the big cat commented. “One even remarked on how handsome and imposing was I.”
“Evidently all their intelligence has gone into design.” Hands on hips, Simna stood in the center of the street surveying their surroundings. A middle-aged man on horseback came trotting past and barely glanced in their direction. While the swordsman admired his flowing green cape, Ehomba noted with interest the schematics of the leather and brass tack, and Ahlitah lowered his gaze and growled deep in his throat at the nearness of so much easy meat. Luckily for the rider’s ride, his mount did not meet the big cat’s eyes.
“We need to find some sort of general trading house or store where we can replenish our supplies.” Reaching around to pat his pack, Simna grinned affably. “One thing about gold: Not much hurts it. Not even seawater.”
“I thought your purse was drained.” Ehomba eyed his friend uncertainly.
The swordsman was not in the least embarrassed. “I didn’t tell you everything, Etjole. I was keeping some in reserve, for myself. But”—he shrugged resignedly—“where I go so goes my belly, and right now it’s more empty than my purse. I imagine it’s the same with you.”
Ehomba gestured diffidently. “I can go a long time without food.”
“Hoy, but why should you?” Simna put a comradely arm around the tall man’s shoulders. “Take food when and where you can, says I. By the look of this place, whatever we purchase here will be fresh and of good quality. Who knows what the next port of call may bring? To a general store for victuals and then, onward to Hamacassar!”
Ehomba followed his friend across the street. “Why Simna, you sound almost enthusiastic.”
The swordsman responded to the observation with a hearty smile. “It’s my way of concealing desperate impatience. But I’m not really worried, because I know that the treasure that lies at the end of this quest will be well worth all the time and effort and hardships.”
Ehomba thought of Roileé the witch dog’s prediction, which echoed Rael the Beautiful’s prediction. “I hope so, friend Simna.”
Citizens gave them directions to a high-ceilinged establishment several blocks distant. Immediately upon entering it, Simna knew they had been guided to the right place. Larger goods were stacked in the center of the wooden-plank floor, while on either side shelves and compartments filled with smaller articles rose to a height of nearly two stories. Like bees probing flowers for honey, young boys on rolling ladders slid back and forth along these walls, picking out requested items in response to sharply barked orders from busy attendants below. At the far end of the single long room was a small bar fronting a handful of tables and chairs at which habitual denizens of the store’s depths sat chatting, drinking, and smoking.
Polite customers made room for the travelers to pass. Or perhaps they were simply getting out of the litah’s way. As it always did in the presence of so many humans, the big cat kept its massive head down and eyes mostly averted. This premeditated posture of specious submission went a long way toward alleviating the concerns of old men, and women with young children in tow.
While Simna shopped, Ehomba pestered the clerks with question after question. So much of what he saw on the shelves was new and wonderful to him. There were small mechanical devices of intricate design, and brightly dyed fabrics and household items. Much of the prepackaged food was outside his experience, and an exasperated Simna was obliged on repeated occasions to explain the nature of foreign imports and exoticisms.
When they had accomplished what they had come for, and finalized their purchases, a dour Simna held the last of the Chlengguu gold in one hand and counted the pieces that remained to them. “I’d thought not to retire on this, but to at least make myself comfortable for a while. Now it seems there won’t even be enough to last out our journey.”
“Be of good cheer, friend Simna.” Ehomba put a comforting hand on his friend’s arm. “Gold is only as good as the purpose it serves.”
“I can think of a few I’d like to have served.” The swordsman exhaled tiredly. “We have enough for a drink or two, anyway.” He nodded at the patient Ahlitah. “Even the cat can have a drink.”
“A pan of water will suffice, thank you.” His fur having finally dried out, the litah had regained his last absent iota of dignity. Content, he made himself regally comfortable in a rear corner, much to the relief of the regular patrons of the limited drinking area.
Taking seats in finely made chairs of wicker and cloth, the two travelers luxuriated in the comfort of drinks with actual ice. This striking and unexpected phenomenon so intrigued Ehomba that he insisted they linger over their refreshment. Those seated in their immediate vicinity proved willing listeners to their tales of travels in far-off lands. Expanding in his element, Simna proceeded to embroider the truth and fill in the gaps with extemporaneous invention. Whenever the swordsman would unload a particularly egregious fiction on the audience of rapt listeners, Ehomba would throw him a disapproving frown. These his loquacious companion would studiously ignore. Meanwhile, snug in his corner, Ahlitah slumbered on.
In this manner, plied with cold drinks by an eager and attentive audience, they passed not only the rest of the afternoon but a good portion of the early evening. Eventually though, it appeared that even Simna ibn Sind’s fertile narrative was beginning to pale as their once fervent fans began to drift away and out of the store in ones and twos, taking their day’s purchases with them.
At last it was pitch dark outside, and their audience had been reduced to two: a pair of husky, bearded manual laborers of approximately the same age as the travelers themselves. Their manner of departure, however, was as unforeseen as it was abrupt.
Catching sight of the blackened street just visible through the distant main entrance, the slightly smaller of the two rose suddenly. His eyes were wide as he clutched at his still seated companion’s shoulder.
“Nadoun! Look outside!”
The other man’s jaw dropped. He whirled to glare at the man behind the compact bar. That worthy spoke solemnly as he finished putting up the last of his glassware.
“That’s right. Ye lads best get a move on or you’ll have to make your way home—after.”
“Why did ye not warn us?” The first man’s tone was strained and accusatory.
This time the proprietor looked up from his work. “Ye be grown men. I am a tradesman, not a baby-sitter.”
Were it not for the terrified expressions on their faces, it would have been comical to watch the two men fight frantically to don their fine evening jackets and flee the general store. The shorter of the two flung a handful of money at the proprietor, not bothering either to count it or wait for his change.
Smacking his lips, Simna set his goblet down on the table in front of him and inquired casually of the shopkeeper as he knelt to pick the scattered coins off the floor, “What was that all about?”
The heavyset merchant sported a florid black mustache that curled upwards at the ends. It contrasted starkly with his gleaming pate, which was as devoid of hair as a ceramic mixing bowl. Perhaps in compensation, his eyebrows were ferocious.
“You don’t know?” Straightening, he let the fruits of his coin gathering tumble into the commodious front pocket of his rough cotton apron. “You really don’t, do ye?”
“It would appear not.” Ehomba toyed with the rim of his own drinking utensil. “Could you shed some illumination on our ignorance for us?”
Shaking his head in disbelief, the proprietor came out from behind the bar and approached their table. His expression was thoroughly disapproving. As near as Ehomba could tell, they were alone in the establishment with the owner. All other customers and employees had long since departed.
With a thick finger their reluctant host indicated the wooden clock placed high on a small shelf. “D’ye know what that portends?”
Unfamiliar with mechanical clocks, Ehomba kept silent. But Simna nodded once, brusquely. “It ‘portends’ that it’s twenty minutes to midnight. So?”
The merchant looked past them, toward the main entrance, and his tone softened slightly. “Midnight is the witching hour.”
“Depends where you happen to be.” Kicking back in his chair, the swordsman put his feet up on the table and crossed them at the ankles. “In Vwalta, the capital of Drelestan, it’s the drinks-all-around hour. In Poulemata it’s the time-for-bed hour.”
“Well here,” the proprietor observed sharply, “it be the witching hour.”
“For a good part of the evening those two men were relaxed and enjoying themselves in our company,” Ehomba pointed out. “When they realized the time they became frantic.” He turned in his chair to look outside. On the silent, night-shrouded street, nothing moved. “What happens at this witching hour? Do witches suddenly appear?”
“Nothing so straightforward, friend.” Quietly annoyed, the owner glanced meaningfully at Simna’s sandaled feet where they reposed on the table. The swordsman responded with a good-natured smile and left his feet where they were. “If it were only a matter of the occasional witch, no one would care, and there would be no need for the Covenant.”
“What is this Covenant?” An unpleasant, tingling sensation made Ehomba feel that they were going to have to leave their comfortable surroundings in a hurry. He made sure that his pack and weapons were close at hand.
Leaning back against the bar, the proprietor crossed his arms over his lower chest, above his protuberant belly, and regarded them sorrowfully. “Ye have never been to Phan before, have ye, or heard of it in your travelings?”
The herdsman shook his head. “This is our first time in this part of the world.” Off in his corner, Ahlitah snored on, blissfully indifferent to the prattlings of men.
Their host sighed deeply. “Long, long ago, the province of Phan was known as the Haunted Land. Though it was, and is, surrounded by fertile countries populated by happy people, Phan itself was shunned except for those daring travelers who passed through it on the river Shornorai, which flows through its northern districts. Even they were not safe from attack.”
“From attack?” Simna’s eyes were slightly glazed, a consequence of downing all the free drinks that had been contributed by their now vanished audience. “By whom?”
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