A plethora of willing, eager hands made themselves available to exalt the herdsman. Standing by himself, he took stock of his surroundings, then walked forward to where he had dropped his clothes and began to dress himself. When that was done he crossed his arms and leaned forward against the railing, resuming the position he had favored before.
Vigorously discussing among themselves everything that had transpired, the crew returned to their duties. The captain had many questions, but courteously restrained his curiosity. No doubt the remarkable southerner needed some time to himself. Queries about what had happened, however burning, could wait until later.
Simna operated under no such restraints. He was at Ehomba’s side as soon as the herdsman had finished dressing. “For the last time, my friend—tell me you are not a sorcerer.”
The herdsman glanced sideways at him and smiled. “It will not be the last time, Simna, but I will say it again anyway. I am not.”
“Fine. Good. I accept it.” The swordsman let his arms dangle over the railing. Dolphins ran before the ship’s prow, energized by its presence, glorying in the pressure wave it pushed before it. “All you have to do is explain to me what just happened. I remember you mentioning this thing, this eromakadi, once before. It was when we were about to confront the Dunawake.” He struggled to remember. “You said then that nothing could slay it except an eromakasi.”
Ehomba hardly heard him. He was thinking of the warm, dry, clean homeland that now lay far to the south. Of a small and unprepossessing but accommodating house, of the music of children’s voices at play, and of the woman who was his wife. The remembrances warmed him from within, and made him feel better about continuing to live. Made him feel that he had greater reason, and sweeter purpose, for being.
“I told you the truth, my friend. The eromakadi are eaters of light. They cannot be killed—except by an eromakasi, an eater of darkness.” Turning his head sideways, he peered direct and deep into the swordsman’s eyes.
“I am a simple herder of cattle and sheep, Simna ibn Sind—and I am also eromakasi. A man can be both.” He returned his unblinking gaze to the sea ahead, and to the shore that could not yet be seen but that he knew was there. “That does not make of me a necromancer.”
By his side Simna was silent for some time, until the ship’s bell rang three times to announce the serving of the midday meal. “Perhaps it does not, Etjole, but you can’t deny that it makes you something more than an ordinary man.”
Removing his arms from the rail, Ehomba straightened. “Not something more, friend Simna. Not something more.”
“Well then, bruther—something other. No, don’t try to explain it to me. Not now.” The swordsman grinned broadly. “Some days you talk like the most ignorant backcountry bumpkin I ever met, and other times I can’t make up or down of your manner of speaking, much less what you’re actually saying. Are you genius or imbecile? Idiot simpleton or sorcerer supreme? For the life of me, I can’t decide.”
His tall friend smiled gently. “Perhaps I am a genius imbecile. Or idiot adept.”
Simna ibn Sind shook his head slowly as he rested a comradely hand on his companion’s shoulder, having to reach high to do so. “Time enough yet to descry the truth. Doesn’t matter one way or the other so long as there’s treasure in it. Now come, and let’s have something to eat. I’ll wager you could use a drink.”
Pushing out his chin, Ehomba rubbed appraisingly at his neck. “To tell you the truth, my throat is a little sore.”
• • •
So it was that Ehomba the Catechist and his ill-matched companions came safely to the great harbor city of Lybondai, which lies on the silver coast of the kingdom of Premmois, beneath the perpetually snow-capped Mountains of Nerimabmeleh. There they discovered that in so worldly and cosmopolitan a community not even an Ahlitah was cause for much comment, and their presence among thousands of other travelers from all over the known world went largely unremarked.
All this was consoling to Etjole Ehomba, who was very tired. But being interested in everything, and everything in which he presently found himself being subsumed in newness, he found that he was able to lift his spirits by the asking of questions, a habit too deeply ingrained in him and too much a part of him to break even in unfamiliar surroundings.
Exasperated by his companion’s continual querying of every other individual they encountered, Simna finally blurted, “Etjole, must you know everything?”
“Yes,” his friend responded without hesitation.
“Must there be an answer to everything?”
The herdsman looked at him as guilelessly and openly as it was possible for one person to look at another. “Of course there must be, Simna. To everything. Otherwise, why would I be here? Or you, or Ahlitah, or anyone else? Why would I be looking to find a Visioness Themaryl, or chancing the wrath of this Hymneth the Possessed? Why would—”
“I’m sorry I asked.” Ignoring the bustle and noise of the tavern in which they were presently tarrying, the swordsman buried his face in the simple ceramic goblet before him. “Shut up and finish your drink.” At their feet, curled up tight beneath the table, Ahlitah stretched, extended enormous curved claws, yawned, and slipped indifferently back to sleep.
Carnivores of Light and Darkness Page 34
