Into the thinking kingdoms - Alan Dean Foster [65]
“I do not know what you mean by proper or improper thinking,” he told them. “I know only that my friend Simna thinks the way he thinks, and I think the way I think, and Ahlitah thinks the way he thinks—and that is how we will continue to think.”
“We are not concerned about the great cat,” the woman replied. “Such beasts are creatures of instinct and not reason.” At these words the litah paused momentarily in cleaning its face, then resumed licking and brushing. It seemed content to let Ehomba deal with the controversy.
“But you and your friend will be brought into the fold. And you will be the happier for it.”
“I’m already happy enough,” an angry Simna retorted. “And I’ll stomp anyone who says different!” His fingers grasped the hilt of his sword.
Despite this openly hostile gesture, none of the three monks behind the table reacted apprehensively. From what Ehomba could see, they did not even tense. Where was their protection? he found himself wondering. How were they able to remain completely unruffled in the face of an implied challenge from an obviously agitated, intemperate personality like Simna?
Despite their intransigent words, he was still hoping to avoid a confrontation. With that in mind, he again tried to divert their attention from the combative swordsman. “I do not understand. How did you know how we were thinking when we entered your country? Something must have told you or you would not have been able to send your servitors, your police, to that tavern to find us.”
“Your friend already knows, and explained it.” The monk in the middle sat back slightly in his chair and smiled deprecatingly. “A little bird told us.”
Turning toward the door, he snapped his fingers twice. Simna tensed, expecting the armed servitors to enter. Instead, a young white-clad acolyte appeared. His robe was emblazoned with only two golden symbols. In the wire cage he carried, two small golden parrots were chattering and chirping contentedly. Ehomba remembered seeing their like among the flocks of songbirds that had announced their arrival in Tethspraih. And they had been common in the eaves above the tavern, and in the streets of the town, and among the stone sculptures that festooned the rectory.
They looked like ordinary birds, more spectacularly plumaged than some, less active than others. No more, no less.
After placing the cage on the table, the acolyte bowed respectfully to his superiors and backed out the way he had come. As he passed through the door, Ehomba noted that at least some of the armed servitors remained stationed in the hall outside. While impressive, the monks’ confidence was evidently not absolute.
The middle speaker placed an affectionate hand on the top of the cage. “These are Spraithian cockatells. They are very good mimics. Most parrots and other members of their related families can listen to human speech and recite it back. Cockatells are able to do the same with thoughts.”
“So that’s how you spy on your people.” Simna’s lips were tight. “We saw the damn little shitters everywhere. How can someone’s thoughts be their own if there’s a bird on every windowsill, in every branch, on the fence post outside each house, soaking up what and how they’re thinking? And of course, you people have ’em trained like pigeons, so that after soaking up enough thoughts they come flying back here, where you can milk them of other folks’ privacy.”
“You make it sound like a forced intrusion,” the woman responded disapprovingly. “No one is harmed, no one senses the cockatells at work, and peace and prosperity reign throughout the land.” Reaching into a pocket of her robe, she removed something