Into the thinking kingdoms - Alan Dean Foster [12]
“Don’t believe a word of it—oohhhhh.” Moaning, Simna tried to encompass his immensely augmented gut with both hands, and failed. He became briefly alert when Ehomba removed a small vial from his pack. “There, you see! It’s only through the use of sorcery that he’s able to eat like this! Tell him, bruther. Tell him what alchemy of reduction is contained in that tiny container you’ve been secretly sipping from.”
“I will.” So saying, Ehomba tilted the vial over the top of his overflowing plate. Small white particles fell from its perforated stopper. “Sea salt. Not only does it remind me of home, but I always like a bit of extra seasoning on my food.”
Disappointed by this revelation that was not, Simna groaned and fell back in his chair. A hand came down to rest gently on his shoulder. Looking up, he saw the smiling face and other components of the sultry barmaid who had been attending to their liquid requirements.
“Dance with a lonely lady, soldier?”
“Dance?” Simna mumbled. “Dance—sure.” Struggling to his feet, he did his best to sweep her up in his arms as they staggered together out onto the small empty section of floor opposite the tootling musicians. It was difficult to tell who was holding up whom. As the trader had promised, the swordsman found to his wonder and delight that his hands did not go through her.
And all the while, to the heavyset merchant’s protracted incredulity, Ehomba continued to eat. “I have never seen three men consume as much as you,” bin Grue marveled openly. “I am also mindful of something your friend said earlier. Are you truly a sorcerer?”
“Not at all. A simple herder of cattle and sheep, from the far south. Nothing more. Tell me now, Haramos bin Grue—how are you going to help us reach this far-distant Hamacassar?”
“It will be difficult for you, but not impossible. First you must . . . Etjole Ehomba, are you feeling unwell?”
It was not so much that the herdsman was feeling unwell as he was unsteady. Though he did not feel in the least filled up, and still retained much of his extraordinary appetite, he found that his vision had begun to blur. The laughter of the preboxed tavern patrons seemed to reverberate in his ears instead of simply sounding, and the light from the mirrors behind the bar to grow hazy. Outlines became indistinct, and even the formidable bin Grue acquired a certain fuzziness around the edges of his blocky, smooth-domed skull. He was speaking, talking to the herdsman, but his words had suddenly become as indistinct as his face, on which individual features now seemed to float freely, nose switching places with mouth, lips reinforcing eyebrows.
Ehomba’s gaze fell to his elegant, slim goblet. The liquor within was light in color and afire with small bubbles that tickled the palate. Perhaps it was the bubbles, a new experience for him. Active and intriguing, they could also serve to divert a man’s attention from the actual taste of the nectar. It struck him suddenly that there was something in the current flagon of wine that could not trace its ancestry to any honorable grape.
Striving to look up, he found that he could not even lift his head. The trader had been nothing if not subtle. His blunt and forthright manner had fooled the herdsman into believing their host was not one to exercise patience in any matter. It was to his credit, then, that he had managed to disguise this component of his personality so successfully. Having plied them with ample food and fine drink of inestimable purity, he had similarly bided his time.
Ehomba tried to mumble something, but his lips and tongue were working no better than his eyes. As darkness began to descend, shutting out the bright lights of the mirrors and the now mocking laughter of the reconstituted tavern patrons, he thought he saw bin Grue rise and beckon. Not to his guests, or to any of the discorporal crowd, but to a number of large and ready men who were entering through the single, dusty doorway that opened onto the obscure close beyond.
Then his vision