Into the thinking kingdoms - Alan Dean Foster [6]
The white-maned head dipped deferentially. “I try, Lord.”
“Back to the fortress! We’ll have a good meal, and deal with the turgid matters of state. Let’s away from the stench of this place, and these people.”
“Yes, Lord.” Peregriff rattled the reins and the magnificent mounts responded, turning the chariot neatly in the limited space available. As it turned, Hymneth glanced in the direction of the breakwater’s edge. The people there were standing, poles set aside, hats in hand and heads bowed reverentially. The head of one particular man was set especially low, as was that of his son. Both were trembling slightly. Seeing this, Hymneth let his gaze linger on them for longer than was necessary, even though he knew it was petty of him to find enjoyment in such trivial exercises of power.
Then Peregriff chucked the reins forcefully, shouted a command, and the chariot leaped forward, racing down the breakwater back toward the harbor, the city, and the stern cliffs of the Curridgians. Food awaited, and drink, and contemplation of the as yet unattained comeliness of his special guest.
Something darted out in front of the chariot, scrambling frantically to avoid the pounding, approaching hooves of the scarlet stallions. A black cat, skittering across the chariot’s path.
“Look out,” the necromancer yelled, “don’t hit it!”
Even though it brought them dangerously close to the edge of the breakwater, Peregriff obediently and expertly utilized the reins to angle the galloping chargers slightly to the right. Spared, the unprepossessing cat vanished into the rocks. Looking back sharply, Hymneth tried to locate it, but could not.
Having guided the striding stallions back to the middle of the breakwater, his chief attendant was looking at him uncertainly. “Lord, it was only a mangy stray cat. No loss if it were killed.”
“No—no loss.” Hymneth found himself frowning. What had that singular moment been about? For just an instant, something had burrowed into and infected his state of mind, causing him to act in a manner not only unbecoming but atypical. Whom had he been panicked for—the cat, or himself? It was very peculiar.
Two inexplicable incidents in little more than as many minutes. First the fisherman, then the cat. It was turning out to be an idiosyncratic morning. One that, for reasons unknown and despite Peregriff’s best efforts to cheer him, saw him finally reach the fortress still unsettled in mind and more ill at ease than he had been in years.
II
As a conduit for goods from the interior and imports from the exotic south and east, Lybondai provided refuge on a daily basis to a goodly number of extraordinary sights. But even in a port city as worldly and cosmopolitan as the pearl of the southern coast, the somber sight of a jet-black, five-hundred-pound cat with the legs of an overmuscled feline sprinter and the teeth and mane of a fully mature lion padding through the harborfront marketplace succeeded in turning heads.
“What makes you think they’re all staring at you?” Drawing himself up to his full, if limited, height, Simna ibn Sind strode along importantly over the well-worn diamond-shaped paving stones.
Ahlitah the black litah snorted softly.
“There are a thousand and one humans milling around us and I can scent thousands more. There are cats, too, the largest of which would provide me with less than an afternoon snack. You don’t need a kingdom to rule and pay you homage, Simna. You do that tirelessly yourself.”
Glancing upward, the swordsman saw two young women leaning out of a window to follow their progress. When he grinned and waved up at them, they drew back within the painted walls, giggling and covering their mouths.
“There, you see! They were looking at me.”
“No,” the big cat replied. “They were laughing at you. Me, they were looking at. Rather admiringly, if I do say so.”
“Be silent, the both of you.” Etjole Ehomba cast a disapproving look back at his garrulous companions. “We will try making inquiries at this harbor pilot’s shack