Into the thinking kingdoms - Alan Dean Foster [4]
Alighting from the chariot, he bade his general remain behind to maintain control of the still feisty stallions. Trailing purple and splendor, his regal cape flowing behind him, he strode over to the north side of the breakwater to confront the neglectful. Peregriff waited and watched, his face impassive.
Other fisherfolk edged away from his approach, clutching their children close to them as they tried their best to make their individual withdrawals inconspicuous. The last thing any of them wanted to do was attract his attention. That was natural, he knew. It was understandable that simple folk such as they should be intimidated and even a little frightened by the grandeur of his presence. He preferred it that way. It made the business of day-to-day governing much simpler.
Which was why he was taking the time to query the one individual among them who had not responded to his arrival with an appropriate gesture of obeisance.
The stubble-cheeked man was clad in long coveralls of some tough, rough-sewn cotton fabric. His long-sleeved shirt was greasy at the wrists with fish blood and oil. He sat on a portion of the breakwater facing the sea, long pole in hand, two small metal buckets at his side. One held bait, the other fish. The bait bucket was the fuller of the two. By his side sat a tousle-haired boy of perhaps six, simply dressed and holding a smaller pole. He kept sneaking looks at the commanding figure that now towered silently behind him and his father. The expressionless fisherman ignored them both.
“I see by your pails that the fish are as disrespectful of you as you are of me.”
The man did not flinch. “’Tis a slow morning, and we had a late start.”
No honorific, the necromancer mused. No title, no “Good morning, Lord.” By his slow yet skillful manipulation of the pole, Hymneth determined that the fellow was not blind. His reply had already marked him as not deaf.
“You know me.”
The man gave the rod a little twitch, the better to jog the bait for the benefit of any watching fish. “Everyone knows who you are.”
Still no praise, no proper acknowledgment! What was happening here? It made no sense. Hymneth was fully aware that others were watching. Surreptitiously, covertly as they could manage, but watching still. He would not have turned and walked away had he, fisherman, and child been on the far side of the moon, but the presence of others made it imperative that he not do so.
“You do not properly acknowledge me.”
The man seemed to bend a little lower over his pole, but his voice remained strong. “I would prefer to be given a choice in who I acknowledge. Without any such choice, the actual execution of it seems superfluous.”
An educated bumpkin, Hymneth reflected. All the more important then, to add to the body of his edification. “You might be more careful in your choice of metaphors. The use of certain words might inspire others, such as myself, to employ them in another context.”
For the first time, the fisherman looked up and back. He did not flinch at the sight of the horned helmet, or the glowing eyes that glowered down at him. “I’m not afraid of you, Hymneth the Possessed. A man can only live so long anyway, and there are too many times when I find myself thinking that it would be better to die in a state of freedom than to continue to exist without it.”
“Without freedom?” The wizard waved effusively. “Here you sit on these public stones, on this beautiful day, with your son at your side, engaging in a pursuit that most of your fellow citizens would consider a veritable vacation, and you complain of a lack of freedom?”
“You know what I’m talking about.” The fellow’s tone was positively surly, Hymneth decided appraisingly. “Ultimately, nothing can be done without your approval, or that of your appointed lackeys like the stone-faced old soldier who waits silently in your chariot. You rule ultimately, tolerating no dissent, no discussion. Throughout the length and breadth of all Ehl-Larimar