Into the thinking kingdoms - Alan Dean Foster [27]
“I am not sure I want to be more catlike. I—” The herdsman broke off. On his other side and slightly behind him, Simna ibn Sind was struggling to suppress his laughter. “What are you sniggering about?”
“You. You’re discussing philosophy with a cat.” The swordsman was grinning broadly.
Ehomba did not smile back. “What could be more natural? Cats are by their very nature deeply philosophical.”
The litah nodded agreement. “When we’re not sleeping or killing something.”
“You mistake babble for profundity.” Raising an arm, Simna pointed. “Better to concentrate on how we’re going to get through that.”
Just ahead, the hills gave way to broad, flat marshland of interminable width. It extended as far to east and west as they could see. On the northern horizon, a second range of hills lifted rounded knolls toward the sky, but they were quite distant.
Rushes and reeds rose in profusion from the marsh, and throngs of songbirds darted from tree to occasional tree like clouds of iridescent midges. Wading birds stalked subsurface prey while flightless, toothed cousins darted and dove through the murky water. Water dragonets with webbed feet and vestigial wings competed for food with their feathered relatives. Ehomba could see miniature jets of flame spurt from hidden hunting sites as the leathery blue and green predators brought down large insect prey.
That there was plenty of that to go around he did not doubt. The nearer they drew to the water’s edge, the more they found themselves executing the informal marshland salute, which consisted of waving a hand back and forth in front of their faces with ever-increasing frequency. Against the irritating insects Ahlitah could only blink rapidly and attempt to defend his rear with rapid switches of his tufted tail.
Simna was first to the water. He knelt and stirred it with a hand. Decaying vegetation bunched up against the shore, its steady decomposition creating a rich soup for those small creatures that dwelled within. Rising, he shook drops from his fingers.
“It’s shallow here, but that doesn’t mean we can count on walking all the way across.” He nodded toward the distant hills, partially obscured behind a rose-hued pastel haze. “Better to paddle.”
“Another boat.” Ehomba sighed. “It seems we are always to be looking for boats.”
They found one with surprising ease, but in addition to paddles, storage lockers, rudder, and a small anchor, it came equipped with an admonition. The orangutan who rented it to them wore a tattered shirt, short pants, and a rag of a mariner’s cap. As he advised them, he was continually reigniting the small-bowled, long-stemmed pipe that was clamped between his substantial lips.
“This is a one-way trip for us.” A reluctant Simna was counting out some of the last of his Chlengguu gold. “How will we get your boat back to you?”
“Oh, I ain’t worried about that, I ain’t.” In the haze-diffused sunlight, the blond in the reddish gold hair gleamed more golden than usual. “You’ll be bringin’ it back yourselves, you see.” He sat in the rocking chair on the porch outside his small wooden shack and bobbed contentedly back and forth.
Swordsman and herdsman exchanged a look. Indifferent to matters of commerce, the black litah sat by the water’s edge and amused himself catching shallow-loving minnows with casual flicks of one paw.
“Why would we be doing that?” Simna asked him straightforwardly.
Removing the attenuated pipe from his mouth, the orang gestured at the marsh with a long finger. “Because you’ll never get across, that’s why. You can try, but sooner or later you’ll have to turn back.”
Simna bristled at the ape’s conviction but held his temper. “You don’t know us, friend. I am an adventurer and swordsman of some note, my tall friend here is an eminent wizard, and that cat that plays so quietly by your little pier can, when roused, be terrible to behold. We have come a long way through many difficulties. No reed-choked, smelly slough is going to stop