Into the thinking kingdoms - Alan Dean Foster [135]
If there was anything more depressing than his own situation, it was the pitiful plight of Hunkapa Aub. The big, easygoing beast was sitting hunched over and silent with his head hung down toward his feet, exactly as Ehomba had first seen him penned back in Netherbrae. After all he had been through, and after having his freedom restored, he was once again destined for life in a cage, to be tormented and jeered at by thoughtless, faceless, uncaring humans. Ehomba was glad he could see only the solid, imposing back and not the creature’s countenance.
“What have you to say before I pronounce sentence?”
Turning away from his friends and ignoring Simna’s unbounded ranting, Ehomba tried to meet Count Bewaryn Beckwith’s stare with as much sincere probity as he could muster. “The individual standing next to you does not deserve to share your presence. He is Haramos bin Grue, a false merchant of Lybondai.”
“I know who he is,” the Count replied curtly. With one hand he brushed aside a dozen amethyst anthias who were swimming across his line of vision. Fins twitching, they skittered silently out of his way. “He came all the way from the far south to warn me of your coming, and to tell me the truth of what happened to my son.”
“The truth is he knows only what I told his employee, an old man with no more scruples than himself.” Ehomba tried to shift his position and found that he could move his backside and bound legs in concert, but had no chance of standing up. Speaking from a seated position weakened his words, he knew, if only psychologically. “He has twisted and distorted it for his own ends. Every time he opens his mouth, he feeds you bullshit.”
“Not only a murderer and a liar, but coarse.” Using only his lips, bin Grue manipulated the smoking cigar from one side of his mouth to the other.
“Hear my friend, great Count!” Evincing impressive reserves of energy, Simna continued to fight futilely with the ropes that bound him even as he spoke. “He tells the truth. And if you don’t release us, doom will befall you. My friend is a great and powerful wizard!”
A hand slowly massaging one temple, Beckwith regarded the herdsman coldly. “Is that so? He looks like a common assassin to me, one who can do nothing without stealth and a knife to slip into some innocent’s back. But I am willing to be convinced.” Eyes blazing, he leaned forward on the throne. “Your friend says you are a powerful magician, southerner. Prove his words. Free yourself.” Against the walls, a number of the vigilant soldiers shifted uneasily.
“I am no assassin,” Ehomba replied. “Hymneth the Possessed is the murderer of your son.”
“A wizard.” With a blunt, humorless laugh, Beckwith sat back on his throne.
Simna stopped struggling against his bonds long enough to lean to his left and whisper to his companion. “Come on, Etjole. This be no time for reticence. Show them what you can do. Reveal your powers to them!”
The herdsman nodded in the direction of their collected kit. “What small powers I may access lie in the bottom of my pack, Simna, which I cannot reach. I am sorry. Truly I am.”
“Well then, remonstrate with this fool! He’s so blinded by the loss of his son that he can’t think straight. That’s when slime like bin Grue can do their work.”
“I will try.” Redirecting his words to the dais, he spoke clearly and with the confidence of one who speaks the truth. “Think a moment before condemning us, noble Beckwith. If I were truly your son’s killer, why would I come all this way and present myself to your court? What possible reason could I have for undertaking such a long and dangerous journey?”
Beckwith replied without hesitation. “To claim the treasure, of course.” He glanced to his right. “Now it will go, as it rightfully should, to my new friend here.”
For the first time, Haramos bin Grue smiled. And why not? Not only was he going to reclaim the black litah and acquire an additional attraction in the form of the disconsolate Hunkapa Aub, there was apparently