Into the thinking kingdoms - Alan Dean Foster [133]
“He died as bravely as any man could wish, thinking not of himself or his own wounds but of those being suffered by others. His last words were for the woman.”
“The Visioness.” Beckwith’s long fingers were curled tightly around his own golden drinking container. “To have suffered two such losses in one year is more than any people should be asked to bear. My son”—he swallowed tightly—“my son was as loved by the people of Laconda North as Themaryl was by our cousins to the south. The shock of their disappearance is only now beginning to fade from the body politic.”
“I have told you of my intention to try and restore the Visioness to her people in accordance with your son’s dying wish. I am sorry there is nothing I can do about him. After his death he was”—the herdsman hesitated, reflecting briefly on how customs differed widely in other lands—“he was given the same treatment my people would have accorded any noble person in his situation.” Ehomba rubbed at his eyes. It would be most impolite to fall asleep at so accommodating a table. Someone like the empathetic Beckwith might understand, but they could not count on that.
Still, the need for rest had become overpowering. Looking to his left, he saw that Simna was similarly exhausted. The swordsman was shaking his head and yawning like a man who—well, like a man who had just crossed a goodly portion of the world to get to this point.
As he started to rise preparatory to excusing himself and his companions, Ehomba found that his chair seemed to have acquired the weight and inertia of solid iron. With a determined effort he pushed it back and straightened. Finding himself a little shaky, he put a hand on the table to steady himself.
“I—I am sorry, sir. You must excuse me and my friends. We have been long on the road and have traveled an extreme distance. As a consequence we are very tired.” Eyelids like lead threatened to shut down without his approval and he struggled to keep them open. “Is there somewhere we can rest?”
“Hoy, bruther!” Next to him, a sluggish Simna struggled to stand up. Failing, he slumped back in his seat. “There’s more at work here than fatigue. Gwoleth knows—Gwoleth knows that . . .” His eyes closed. A second or so later they fluttered open. “Gwoleth be crammed and damned—I should know. As many taverns as I have been in, as many situations . . .” His voice trailed away into incomprehensible mumbling. As Ehomba fought to keep his own eyes focused and alert, the swordsman’s head slumped forward on his chest.
Intending to call out to the black litah, he tried to turn, only to find that his body would no longer obey his commands. Tottering in place, he succeeded in resuming his seat. He wanted to apologize to their host, intending to explain further their inexcusable breach of manners, but he found that he was so tired that his mouth and lips no longer worked in concert. An irresistibly lugubrious shade was being drawn down over his eyes, shutting out the light and dragging consciousness down with it. Dimly, he heard someone speaking to the Count.
“That’s done it, sir. Fine work. You have them now.”
That voice, what remained of Ehomba’s cognitive facilities pondered—where have we heard that voice before? As awareness slipped painlessly away, he thought he smelled something burning. It too brought back a faint flicker of a memory.
“Murderer!” That accusation was spat in Bewaryn Beckwith’s sonorous tone. But whom was he accusing of murder? Someone new who had entered the room?
A hand was on his shoulder, shaking him. In the light, downy haze that had inexorably engulfed him, he hardly felt it. “Murder my son and then brazenly seek my help and hospitality, will you? You’ll pay for it, savage. You’ll pay for it long and slow and painfully!” As he delivered this pledge the Count’s voice was trembling with anger.
Me, Ehomba thought distantly. He is accusing me of killing his son.