Into the thinking kingdoms - Alan Dean Foster [61]
Thoughtfully, he turned back to the mug set before him. Its contents were refined, and warmed his belly. A bright-eyed Simna was already on his second.
“By Goilen-ghosen, Etjole, will you never put away that long face?” The swordsman waved at their impeccable, almost elegant, surroundings. “There’s no danger here, no threat. We’re not out in the hinterlands of nowhere now, dealing with mad horses and all-consuming black clouds. Can’t you relax?”
“I will relax when this journey is done and I am back home with my friends and family.”
“Hoy, what a melancholy, brooding traveling companion you are. Might as well be roaming with an undertaker.”
“That is not fair,” Ehomba protested. “I enjoy a good laugh as much as the next person. And have done so, in your presence.”
“Yeah, yeah, so you have. I’m not saying you don’t have a sense of humor. It’s your general attitude that sours the air around you.”
“Then maybe you should point your nose in a different direction!” Seeing that other patrons were staring at them, he lowered his voice. “It is just that when I am not talking, I am always thinking.”
Simna was smiling at a distant woman, who was gracefully clad in a flowing dress with fine lace trim. She smiled back, seemed abruptly to remember herself, and turned haughtily away—but not before sneaking another surreptitious glance in the swordsman’s direction. He flashed her another grin.
“Then that’s your curse, Etjole. Myself, when I’m not talking, I’m not thinking. It’s a very restful way to live and lets a man sink into the world instead of having it dumped on his shoulders. You should try it sometime.” He took a hearty swallow from the mug before him.
“I have,” Ehomba replied disconsolately. “It does not seem to work for me.”
Simna nodded understandingly. “Actually, we should both envy him.” He gestured with the mug at the black litah. The heavily muscled predator was lying with its spine against the back wall, eyes closed, sound asleep. “Cats now, they not only know how to relax, they’ve made an art of it.”
Abruptly, the laughter and bubbling conversation that filled the tavern died. Through the main doorway, a knot of men had entered as one. The owner, who had been prepared to challenge Ehomba and his friends, did not even attempt to bar their entry. Instead, he moved hastily aside, bowing his head several times out of fearful respect. As soon as they had identified the intruders, the rest of the apprehensive patrons resumed their conversations, keeping their voices unnaturally low.
The men and women wore uniforms of loose-fitting yellow and white, with high-puffed front-lidded caps and yellow leather boots. They carried rapiers and flintlock pistols, whose function the more worldly Simna had to explain to the astonished Ehomba. He had never encountered firearms before, though itinerant traders who occasionally made forays into Naumkib country spoke of seeing such things in the southern cities of Askaskos and Wallab.
The leader of the intruders was a big, burly individual with a profound mustache and close-cropped red hair. As he led his people deeper into the tavern, Ehomba was surprised to see that two of the uniforms were worn by grim-faced older women.
They finally halted before the travelers’ table. Hands rested as inconspicuously as possible close to pistol butts and sword hilts. “You!” the leader declared.
“Us?” Simna responded querulously.
“Yes. You are under arrest and are to come with us immediately.”
“Under arrest?” An openly confused Simna frowned. “By Gobula, what for? Who are you?”
Muted laughter rose from the uniformed intruders at this blatant confession of ignorance. Their leader, however, hushed them sternly. He did not smile.
“You are obviously strangers here, so it is not surprising you do not know. We are the Servitors of the Guardians of Right Thinking, and you are under arrest for improper contemplations.