Into the thinking kingdoms - Alan Dean Foster [67]
“Simna,” the herdsman told his friend warningly, “that’s enough! Stay where you are!”
The monk at the far end of the table spoke somberly. “It does not matter. Advance or retreat, the end will be the same.” His smile returned, though in muted form. “And you will be the better for it.”
“The better for it?” Simna glared furiously at the man, utterly frustrated by the unshakable composure of the smugly complacent trio seated behind the table. “I’ll be the better for this!” Raising the shining blade over his head, he took another step forward. Ehomba shouted a warning and Ahlitah crouched, instantly alert.
The monk aiming the device did not hesitate as he pulled the trigger and fired.
XI
The litah snarled warningly but held his ground. Ehomba instinctively drew back. As for Simna, he ducked sharply, frowned, and then straightened anew. To all outward appearances he was entirely unharmed.
The cloud of powder that puffed from the muzzle of the strange device was primarily pink with deeper overtones of cerise. It enveloped the swordsman for the briefest of moments before dissipating in the still air of the chamber. Simna sniffed once, twice, and then laughed out loud.
“A decent little fragrance. Delicate, not too strong. Reminds me of a girl I spent some time with in a town on the western edge of the Abrangian Steppes.”
“Good.” The monk lowered the contraption but did not set it aside. “I’m glad it brings back fond memories for you.”
“Very fond.” Simna grinned wolfishly at the savant. “Fonder than you’ll ever know.”
“That may very well be true. You are obviously a man of extensive appetites. Mine, I am not ashamed to confess, are more modest. In that respect I envy you, though I cannot say that my envy translates into admiration.” He indicated the swordsman’s upraised weapon. His two associates were watching closely. “What, may I ask, were you planning to do with that impressive-looking piece of steel?”
Simna looked down at the sword in his hand. “This? Why, I was going to . . . I was going to . . .”
His words trailed away along with his anger. He stared stupidly at the weapon, as if he had once known its purpose but had forgotten, like someone who finds a long-lost piece of clothing in an old drawer and cannot remember how it is to be worn. Slowly, he lowered the blade. His expression brightened when he remembered the scabbard that hung from his belt. Sheathing the metal, he looked back at the trio of inquisitors and smiled.
“There! I guess that’s what I was going to do with it.” The smile plastered on his face resembled that of several of the lesser sculptures that decorated the exterior of the rectory: bemused, but not vacuous. “I hope we’re not giving you good people any trouble?”
“No,” the woman told him confidently, “no trouble at all. It’s nice to see you right thinking. A lot less painful, isn’t it?”
“It sure is.” But even as Simna spoke, his lips seemed to be doing battle with his jawline. Small veins pulsed in his forehead and neck, and perspiration broke out on his forehead even though it was quite cool in the darkened chamber. Everything about his expression and posture indicated a man at war with himself—and losing. One hand trembled visibly as it attempted to clutch the hilt of the now sheathed sword. The fingers would twitch convulsively forward and miss, twitch and miss, as if their owner was afflicted with any one of several neuromuscular infirmities.
It was dispiriting to watch Simna take a step toward the table. One leg worked well enough, but the other hung back, obviously reluctant, as if fastened to the floor by metal bolts. The paralyzed grin on the swordsman’s face hinted at internal mental as well as physical conflict.
“Better,” the monk in the middle declared tersely even as he raised the singular device and pointed it in Ehomba’s direction. “As your friend can tell you, this won’t hurt a bit. A few weekly treatments and your thinking will be right as rain.”
“Yes,” agreed the man on his left. “Then you can choose freely whether to return to