“You’ll hit Bebrol first,” Coubert was telling them. On the other side of the table, Simna was devouring all that was set before him. “It is the southernmost town in the Dukedom of Tethspraih. A small province, but a proud one. North of Tethspraih lies Phan, an altogether more wealthy and cosmopolitan sort of place. You three will stand out in Tethspraih, but not so much in Phan and the larger kingdoms. If you want to make time you should keep to yourselves as much as possible.”
“We always do.” His mouth full of mutton, the swordsman had difficulty speaking.
“How far from Phan to Hamacassar?” Ehomba ate delicately but steadily.
Coubert sat back in his chair, fork in one hand, and pondered, his lower lip pushing out past the upper edge of his beard. “Hard for me to say. I’ve never been that far north. Never even met anyone who has.” His smile returned. “You’ll be able to get more accurate information in Phan. More tea?”
“No, no thank you.” Simna wiped at his greasy lips with the back of his forearm. “Your fount of generosity filled me with enough liquid last night. Now I need to fill my gut with solid stuff to sop it up.” He punctuated his confession by shoving a sizable chunk of brown bread into his mouth.
“At least let me top off your supplies. I don’t know what resources you have.”
Food muffled Simna’s grunted response. “Hoy! Spent most of our resources, we have.”
“You have been too kind to us already,” Ehomba told him, ignoring the swordsman’s bugging eyes and frantic semaphoring.
“Please allow me to help. It’s my pleasure. I have so much, and your journey is of noble intent.” Pushing back his chair, he placed his linen napkin on the table and rose. “Besides, Roileé seems to like you, and over the years I’ve come to trust her judgment. Strange how sometimes a dog can be more perceptive than a person.”
“Passing strange,” agreed Ehomba. From her place prone on the floor, the witch dog winked at him. No one else saw it, as was intended.
They departed the cottage with their packs stuffed full of jerked mutton and their water bags filled to overflowing. Though Coubert offered to supply one, Ahlitah refused to wear a pack. It was enough, he growled, that he was compelled to suffer the company of men. To expect him to adopt, however temporarily, their constricting accoutrements was too much. He would remain free physically if not otherwise.
Coubert stood in the doorway of his home and waved until they passed out of sight. His dog sat at his feet, saluting their departure with several joyful yips and barks.
“Nice dog, that one,” Simna was moved to comment as he hitched his heavy pack higher on his shoulders. “Getting on in years, but still good company.”
“More than you know.” As always, Ehomba’s gaze was focused forward, scanning the lay of the land ahead of them. “She was a witch.”
“Hoy? By Gyerboh, I never would have guessed!” The swordsman looked back the way they had come, but the little cottage had already disappeared from view, swallowed up by rolling boulders and brush and the gentle incline they were now descending. “How could you tell?”
“She told me. And showed me some things. In a dream.”
Ahlitah looked around sharply. “So that was not a dream within a dream. Thought it might have been you there with me, but couldn’t be sure.” The big cat shook its head and the great black mane flowed and rippled. “Don’t remember much of it. What were you doing in my dream, man?”
“I thought you were in mine. Not that it matters.”
Simna’s bewilderment underlined his words. “What the Ghoska are you two babbling about?”
“Nothing. Nothing real.” Ehomba stepped over a wandering rivulet, doing his best to avoid crushing the tiny flowers that fought for life on its far side. “It is all gone, like smoke.”
The swordsman snorted derisively, a common reaction when Ehomba or the cat spoke of things he did not understand. After a while he exclaimed, “So she was a witch, was she? I’ve known bitches who thought they were witches, but this is the first one who fully qualifies on both counts.”
“She was righteous, and helpful.” The herdsman did not tell his friend that Roileé had recapitulated the virulent prediction that had first been read to him in distant Kora Keri.
“A man can’t ask any more of a bitch, be she witch or otherwise.” Pleased with that proclamation of itinerant swordsman sagacity, Simna took the lead. “It’ll be great to be back among civilized society again, where a man can find decent food and drink wherever he turns. And perhaps even a little entertainment.” His eyes flashed.
“As you yourself pointed out to Coubert, our assets are much reduced. We need to conserve them for necessities, my friend.”
“Hoy, bruther, I can see that you and I need to achieve a consensus on just what constitutes a necessity.”
They discussed the matter of their meager remaining resources as they walked. When it came to the laying out of specifics, the litah sided with Simna, the only difference being that while the big cat sympathized with and understood the swordsman’s baser needs, he himself had no use for any human medium of exchange, being accustomed as he was to taking what he required when he needed it, and slaughtering the rest.
X
Because the mountains that formed the southern boundary of the Thinking Kingdoms sloped so gently from their heights, the travelers did not encounter the grand, sweeping panorama that might have been expected. Instead, they came upon the first outlying pastures and villages of Tethspraih unexpectedly and without drama.
Unlike the farms they had seen south of Aboqua, these were not patches of forest or desert reclaimed for planting. Neat hedgerows and stone walls demarcated fields that had been planted and harvested for hundreds of years. Venerable irrigation canals carried water to faultlessly straight furrows. There were fields of wheat and rye as well as vegetables and ground-hugging fruits, orchards as tidily pruned as flower beds, vineyards clean enough to sleep in. Sturdier trees hung heavy with nut crops, and melons lined the ridges of water-filled ditches like bumps on a lizard’s hide. Flocks of songbirds and small parrots filled the trees with color and the air with song. All were intoxicated with pigment, a golden parrot sporting a bright emerald crest being the most prevalent. A small flock of these opalescent birds performed aerial acrobatics above the heads of the travelers as they advanced, as if greeting them with avian sign language.
Flowers brightened the fronts of even the smallest houses, and the weed-free dirt roads soon gave way to sophisticated stone paving. They passed through small clusters of homes and craft shops that had not quite matured into villages, and then into the first real towns. Wherever they went they excited stares and gossip among the well-dressed populace, due in large part to the inability of even the most supercilious residents to ignore the hulking presence of Ahlitah on their spotless streets. But Ehomba and Simna drew their fair share of stares as well, thanks to their exotic costume and barbaric aspect.
“I don’t like being the object of everyone’s interest.” The swordsman strode along insolently, oblivious to the giggling of the women and the disapproving glares of the men. “This would be a hard place for us to hide—if we needed to hide.”
“I fear we will just have to resign ourselves to being conspicuous.” The worn butt of Ehomba’s spear clacked against the stone of the sidewalk every time he took a stride forward. “This is a much more cosseted country than any we have passed through previously. I do not mind them looking down on us, or thinking we are uncivilized savages, so long as they leave us free to go on our way.”
“We don’t need food. Our good friend the sheepherder saw to that.” The swordsman was peering hopefully at storefronts and into windows of real glass. “But I could use something stronger than tea to drink. It was an easy hike but a long one out of those mountains.”
Ehomba sighed resignedly. “You always need something to drink.”
His friend shrugged. “Can I help it if I have thin blood?”
“I t
hink a thin constitution is more like it.” From his greater height, the southerner searched the street on which they found themselves. “But a tavern is a good place to find information. And that, friend Coubert did not supply in great quantities.” Lowering the tip of his spear, he gestured at a likely-looking establishment. Birds nested in the eaves above the entrance, suggesting either that they were inured to noise and violence or that it was a well-behaved place.
The nattily dressed owner took a stance directly opposite the door as soon as he saw what had entered. His disapproving scowl vanished the instant Ahlitah’s eye caught his, and he seemed to shrink several inches. While he did not invite them in, neither did he find it expedient to bar their way. Mindful of the fuss their foreign presence had roused, Ehomba and his companions settled themselves in the most isolated booth in the place, thereby relieving the perspiring owner of one major concern, if not exactly endearing themselves to him.
Gold from Simna’s rapidly dwindling Chlennguu hoard turned out to be as welcome in Tethspraih as anywhere else, and drink was duly if coolly brought. The tired travelers drank, and watched the comings and goings of patrons, admiring the cut of their fine clothing. Silk and satin were much in evidence, and this was only a modest municipality and not one of the Thinking Kingdom’s great cities. Its citizens smelled of wealth and prosperity. And yet, beneath the superficial veneer of general happiness, Ehomba sensed overtones of discontent, of pockets of gloom scattered among the comfortable like measles on a beautiful girl’s countenance.
Thoughtfully, he turned back to the mug set before him. Its contents were refined, and warmed his belly. A bright-eyed Simna was already on his second.
“By Goilen-ghosen, Etjole, will you never put away that long face?” The swordsman waved at their impeccable, almost elegant, surroundings. “There’s no danger here, no threat. We’re not out in the hinterlands of nowhere now, dealing with mad horses and all-consuming black clouds. Can’t you relax?”
“I will relax when this journey is done and I am back home with my friends and family.”
“Hoy, what a melancholy, brooding traveling companion you are. Might as well be roaming with an undertaker.”
“That is not fair,” Ehomba protested. “I enjoy a good laugh as much as the next person. And have done so, in your presence.”
“Yeah, yeah, so you have. I’m not saying you don’t have a sense of humor. It’s your general attitude that sours the air around you.”
“Then maybe you should point your nose in a different direction!” Seeing that other patrons were staring at them, he lowered his voice. “It is just that when I am not talking, I am always thinking.”
Simna was smiling at a distant woman, who was gracefully clad in a flowing dress with fine lace trim. She smiled back, seemed abruptly to remember herself, and turned haughtily away—but not before sneaking another surreptitious glance in the swordsman’s direction. He flashed her another grin.
“Then that’s your curse, Etjole. Myself, when I’m not talking, I’m not thinking. It’s a very restful way to live and lets a man sink into the world instead of having it dumped on his shoulders. You should try it sometime.” He took a hearty swallow from the mug before him.
“I have,” Ehomba replied disconsolately. “It does not seem to work for me.”
Simna nodded understandingly. “Actually, we should both envy him.” He gestured with the mug at the black litah. The heavily muscled predator was lying with its spine against the back wall, eyes closed, sound asleep. “Cats now, they not only know how to relax, they’ve made an art of it.”
Abruptly, the laughter and bubbling conversation that filled the tavern died. Through the main doorway, a knot of men had entered as one. The owner, who had been prepared to challenge Ehomba and his friends, did not even attempt to bar their entry. Instead, he moved hastily aside, bowing his head several times out of fearful respect. As soon as they had identified the intruders, the rest of the apprehensive patrons resumed their conversations, keeping their voices unnaturally low.
The men and women wore uniforms of loose-fitting yellow and white, with high-puffed front-lidded caps and yellow leather boots. They carried rapiers and flintlock pistols, whose function the more worldly Simna had to explain to the astonished Ehomba. He had never encountered firearms before, though itinerant traders who occasionally made forays into Naumkib country spoke of seeing such things in the southern cities of Askaskos and Wallab.
The leader of the intruders was a big, burly individual with a profound mustache and close-cropped red hair. As he led his people deeper into the tavern, Ehomba was surprised to see that two of the uniforms were worn by grim-faced older women.
They finally halted before the travelers’ table. Hands rested as inconspicuously as possible close to pistol butts and sword hilts. “You!” the leader declared.
“Us?” Simna responded querulously.
“Yes. You are under arrest and are to come with us immediately.”
“Under arrest?” An openly confused Simna frowned. “By Gobula, what for? Who are you?”
Muted laughter rose from the uniformed intruders at this blatant confession of ignorance. Their leader, however, hushed them sternly. He did not smile.
“You are obviously strangers here, so it is not surprising you do not know. We are the Servitors of the Guardians of Right Thinking, and you are under arrest for improper contemplations.”
“Improper contemplations?” Ehomba’s face contorted. “What is that?”
“Thinking not in alignment or kind with the approved general mode of thinking decreed for Tethspraih,” the mind cop informed him importantly.
“Well,” murmured Ehomba, “since we just arrived in your country, there is no way we could know what constitutes approved thinking and what does not, now could we? I have never heard of such a thing.”
“Hoy, that’s true,” Simna concurred self-righteously. “How can you arrest us for violating some ordinance we know nothing about?”
“I am only following orders. I was told to bring you to the rectory.” His fingers hovered close to his sword, and those behind him tensed. On the far side of the tavern, two couples departed in haste without paying their bill. The owner, a petrified expression on his face, did not go after them.
Simna’s jaw tightened and his own hand started to shift, but Ehomba raised a hand to forestall him. “Of course we will go with you.”
The swordsman gaped at him. “We will?”
“We do not want any trouble. And I would like to know who has been reading our thoughts, and how.”
“Well, I wouldn’t.”
“Then stay.” Ehomba waked Ahlitah, whose unexpected and suddenly looming presence swiftly wiped the complacent smiles from the faces of the police contingent. After whispering an explanation to the big cat, it nodded once and ambled out from behind the table. The police drew back farther, but at a sign from their leader kept their weapons holstered and sheathed.
“I’m glad you’ve decided to cooperate.” The officer nodded in the big cat’s direction and invoked a grateful smile. “Very glad.”
“We have just arrived here and we do not want to make any trouble.” Ehomba started toward the door. “Let us go to this rectory and see what is wanted of us.”
Simna hesitated, growled something nasty under his breath, then picked up his own pack and followed, falling in beside his friend. “You better know what you’re doing,” he whispered as the police escorted them out onto the street and turned left. “I don’t like jails.”
The herdsman barely glanced in his companion’s direction. He was much more interested in their new surroundings and in the people who were staring back at him than in the swordsman’s complaints. The citizens of the Dukedom were wholly human; no other simians here. No intelligent apes and orangs, chimps or bonobos. To his way of thinking it rendered the otherwise imposing town a poorer place.
Striding along importantly in the forefront, the police official led them through t
he streets, past stores and restaurants, apartments and workshops, until they crossed a neatly paved square to halt outside the towering wooden door of a large stone structure. It was decorated with finely sculpted portraits of men and women holding all manner of articles upon which writing had been incised. There were tablets and scrolls, bare slabs of rock, and thickly bound books. The graven expressions of the statues bespoke ancient wisdom and the accumulation of centuries of knowledge.
Other signatures of learning festooned the building: chemical apparatus and tools whose function was unknown to Ehomba, mathematical signs and symbols, human figures raising bridges and towers and other structures—all indicating a reverence for knowledge and erudition. For the endemic songbirds and parrots the multiplicity of sculptures provided a nesting ground that verged on the paradisiacal.
Simna was openly mystified. “This doesn’t have the look or feel of any jail I ever spent time in.”
“You are especially knowledgeable in that area?” Ehomba inquired dryly.
“Hoy, sure!” the swordsman replied cheerfully. “Just part of my extensive résumé of experience.”
The herdsman grunted as the door was opened wide by an acolyte clad in a simple white robe emblazoned with mathematical symbols. “We may need to draw on it. Though prior to this journey I had spent little time in towns, I am pretty sure that a police escort is not sent forth to escort people anywhere other than to a jail.”
It did not look much like a lockup, however. Simna continued to offer unsolicited comments on their surroundings as they were marched inside. There were no cells, no bars, no downcast prisoners shuffling about in irons. The interior was a fair spiritual and aesthetic reflection of the exterior, with uncowled monks busy at desks and laboratory tables, delving deep into books or arguing animatedly about this or that matter of science.
They were taken to a large chamber that was more like a comfortable living room than a theater of interrogation and directed to seat themselves opposite an empty, curved table. A trio of monks, two men and one woman all of serious mien and middle age, marched in. As soon as they took their chairs, the police official stepped forward and saluted by pressing his open palm to his forehead and then pulling it quickly away in a broad, sweeping gesture.
Into the Thinking Kingdoms: Journeys of the Catechist, Book 2 Page 14
