Into the thinking kingdoms - Alan Dean Foster [145]
“Considering how far we have traveled and what difficulties we have overcome, I would think that you could show a little optimism, Simna.”
“I’m a realist, Etjole.” The swordsman kicked a rock out of his path and into the drainage ditch that ran parallel to the slightly elevated roadbed.
“Realism and optimism are not always mutually exclusive, my friend.”
“Hoy, that’s like saying a beautiful daughter and her suspicious father aren’t mutually exclusive.” He watched a wagon piled high with parsnips and carrots pass by, rumbling in the opposite direction. The team of matched toxondons that was pulling it ignored the immigrants, but the two men riding on the wagon’s seat never took their eyes off Ehomba and his companions.
They did not pass any more of the monoliths. Apparently these existed only in the single line they had encountered on the outskirts of the city. But there were many other architectural wonders to dazzle the eyes of first-time visitors.
Hamacassar boasted the tallest buildings Ehomba had ever seen. Rising eight and nine stories above the widest commercial streets, these had facades that were decorated with fine sculpture and stonework. Many wagons plied the intricate network of avenues and boulevards while flat-bottomed barges and other cargo craft filled the city canals to capacity. These were in turn spanned by hundreds of graceful yet wholly functional bridges that were themselves ornamented with bas-reliefs and metal grillwork. Though curious about the singular foursome, the locals were too busy to linger and stare. The closer they came to the waterfront, the more pervaded the atmosphere became with the bustle and fervor of commerce.
“A prosperous kingdom.” Simna made the comment as they worked their way between carts and wagons piled high with ship’s supplies, commodities from all along the length of the great river, foodstuffs and crafts, and all manner of trade goods. “These people have grown rich on trade.” Slowing as they passed a small bistro, he inhaled deeply of the delicious aromas that wafted from its cool, inviting interior.
Taking him by the arm, Ehomba drew him firmly away from the scene of temptation. The swordsman did not really resist.
“We have no money for such diversions,” Ehomba reminded his friend, “unless your pack holds an overlooked piece of Chlengguu gold.”
A downcast Simna looked regretful. “Alas, the only portion of that which remains golden is my memory.” By way of emphasis he shifted his pack higher on his back. “Another lunch of jerked meat and dried fruit, I fear.” Behind him, crowding close, Hunkapa Aub smiled ingenuously.
“Hunkapa like jerky!”
“You would,” the swordsman muttered under his breath. As the sun climbed higher in a simmering, hazy sky, the humidity rose accordingly. But not all was the fault of the climate—they were approaching the riverfront.
Ships of all manner and description crowded the quays as lines of nearly naked, sweating stevedores proceeded with their unloading or provisioning. Shouts and curses mingled with the clanking of heavy tackle, the flap of unfurling canvas, the wet slap of lines against wooden piers and metal cleats. All manner of costume was visible in a blur of styles and hues, from intricately batiked turbans to simple loincloths to no-nonsense sailors’ attire sewn in solid colors and material too tough for anything equipped with less dentition than a shark to bite through. It was a choice selection of barely organized chaos and confusion made worse by the presence of frolicking children, gawking sightseers, and strolling gentlefolk.
Ehomba was very hopeful.
It proved all but impossible to convince any of the busy workers to pause long enough to answer even a few simple questions. Those who at first try appeared willing evaporated into the teeming crowd the instant they caught sight of the black litah, or Hunkapa Aub, or both. Afraid of the trouble his two nonhuman companions