Into the thinking kingdoms - Alan Dean Foster [134]
The other voice came again. It was blunt and the words it rendered terse and to the point.
“Kill them quickly or slowly, sir, it matters not to me. But as we earlier concurred, I claim the sleeping cat for myself and, if you are agreeable, that big ugly brute lying next to it as well.”
“Take them if you will.” Barely controlled fury now underlay every clipped syllable of the Count’s speech. “It is the one who did the actual killing I want. I suppose I’ll detain his supporter as well. A man should have company while under torture.”
“If you say so, sir. And now, if you’ll pardon me, I need to direct the laying of nets on my property.”
As the light of wakefulness shrank to a last, intermittent point, Ehomba finally recognized the second voice. It was one he had never expected to hear again, and its presence boded no better for their prospects than did the Count of Laconda North’s threatening words.
Haramos bin Grue.
XXI
When consciousness returned it was accompanied by a pounding at the back of the head that would not go away. Wincing, Ehomba fought to keep his eyes open. With every effort his vision grew a little clearer, a little sharper. That did not mean he much liked what he saw.
The dining room with its fine table settings and liveried servants was gone. The travelers had been moved to some kind of reception room, larger but more sparsely furnished. The paintings on the walls were not of reassuring domestic scenes but instead depicted a procession of Lacondan counts and their consorts. There were also landscapes and images of pastoral life, well rendered and patriotically infused. Exquisite tropical fish, those inexplicable living ornaments of Laconda, drifted and swam through the air of the reception hall. Lining the walls, alert and heavily armed blue-clad soldiers stood like silent sculptures.
At one end of the room a double throne of becoming modesty rested on a raised dais. Heavily embroidered banners formed a suitably impressive backdrop to the royal seat while providing some of the opulent trappings of office the chairs themselves lacked. One seat was empty, the other held a brooding Bewaryn Beckwith. Standing next to him was a squat, pug shape from whose thick lips protruding a lightly smoking cigar. No look of triumph scored the merchant’s round face. Satisfaction, perhaps. With bin Grue it was only business as usual.
When he noticed the herdsman staring at him, he grunted around the tobacco. “Nobody gets the best of Haramos bin Grue. You should’ve let me have the cat.”
Alongside the herdsman Simna ibn Sind was coming slowly awake. As he returned to the world of cognizance, he became aware of the strong cords binding his arms behind his back.
“Hoy, what’s this?” Blinking, he focused not on the pensive nobleman but on the stubby shape standing next to him. “It’s the pig-man!” Futilely, he began to fight against his fetters. “Let me free for a minute. No, half a minute! You don’t even have to give me a sword!”
While his friend raged, Ehomba saw that a metal net now secured the glowering black litah behind him. A second similar mesh had been used to bind up Hunkapa Aub while he slept. Whatever drug had been slipped into their wine had done its work efficiently and with admirable subtlety. No wonder the Count’s servants had insisted that Ahlitah and Hunkapa partake of the specially treated libation.
Their gear lay piled nearby, his pack and weapons atop Simna’s. These might as well have been left on the other side of the Hrugars. He was bound so tightly he could barely move his fingers, let alone his arms and legs. No doubt bin Grue had made sure of that. But he was not sorry for himself. He had faced death many times before. His only regret was that he would not be able to tell Mirhanja and the children good-bye, and that they would never know what had happened