Into the thinking kingdoms - Alan Dean Foster [23]
“Is it harmless now?”
Ehomba had walked over to the sturdy cage and was gazing at the black, furry mass within. Ahlitah had slept through it all. “So long as you’re careful not to loosen the bow.” Swinging his pack around, he began to search its depths.
Keeping his fingers well away from the simple twine that secured the box, the swordsman looked around until he found a tall amphora full of fine olive oil. Removing the lid, he dropped the box inside and watched as it slowly sank out of sight in the viscous, aromatic liquid. It would not be among the first places the merchant would think to search. Satisfied, he replaced the cover and moved to rejoin his friend.
As he did so, he kept glancing worriedly at the rear door through which the trader had disappeared. “I know bin Grue’s type. He won’t give up something this important to him, even in the face of superior sorcery. We’ve got to get out of here.”
Ehomba glared at him and the swordsman was taken aback. The herdsman rarely showed much emotion. “You talked me into this. We are not leaving here without what we came for.”
“By Gittam’s eyelashes, that’s fine with me, Etjole—but we’d best hurry.” He indicated the massive padlock. “I can try my hand at that again, but the risk remains the same. Or is there some alchemy you can use on it?”
“I know no alchemy.”
“Right,” the swordsman retorted sardonically. “You only know twine.”
“That was not my doing. In the village there is a man called Akanauk. He is—simple. Here.” He tapped the side of his head. “The Naumkib are a tolerant folk, and he is left to himself, to be himself. When he needs food, it is given to him. Sleeping in a house makes him cry out in the night and wake the children, so some of us built him a platform high up in one of the village’s few trees. He climbs up there at night and there he lies and gurgles happily, like a baby.
“Akanauk does not farm, or help in the watching of the herds, or gather shellfish on the shore.” As he studied the cage and its single heavily drugged occupant, Ehomba again touched finger to temple. “He does not have the ability to do so. What he does is sit by himself and make things. Simple things. A necklace of colored beach pebbles like those I carry with me in my pocket, or a crown of mint leaves, or armlets of woven palm frond, or lengths of strong cord.”
Still watching the back door, Simna indicated that he understood. “So the village simpleton gave you a piece of his homemade string and you took it just to please him, and to remind you of home.”
“No,” the herdsman replied blandly. “I took it because a traveler never knows when he might need a piece of cord to tie something up.”
“Gellsteng knows it’s so. Now, use your wizardry to pick this lock so we can get out of here. Even as we speak, that slug bin Grue may be raising arms against us.”
“I cannot do anything with that lock. I do not have your skill with such things. And I am no wizard, Simna. You should know that by now.”
“Hoy, the evidence is all around me.” His gaze narrowed as his friend revealed a small bottle cupped in one hand. It was very tiny. Even when full, the swordsman estimated it could hold no more than a few drops.
The sound of running feet, striking distant stone like gathering rain, made him turn sharply. “If you’re going to do anything, you’d better do it quickly. They’re coming.”
Kneeling by the side of the cage, Ehomba put an arm between the bars and held the little bottle as close to the anesthetized Ahlitah’s head as possible. Laying his spear carefully by his side, he reached through the close-set bars with his other hand.
“You might want to step back a little,” he advised his companion.
Sword once more in hand, Simna was trying to watch the back door and the cage at the same time. “Why?” he asked pointedly. “Is some djinn going to burst from the phial? Are you going to use a special acid to dissolve away the bars?”
“Nothing like that.” The herdsman carefully loosened the bottle’s minuscule stopper. When it was almost