Into the thinking kingdoms - Alan Dean Foster [76]
“Be of good cheer, friend Simna.” Ehomba put a comforting hand on his friend’s arm. “Gold is only as good as the purpose it serves.”
“I can think of a few I’d like to have served.” The swordsman exhaled tiredly. “We have enough for a drink or two, anyway.” He nodded at the patient Ahlitah. “Even the cat can have a drink.”
“A pan of water will suffice, thank you.” His fur having finally dried out, the litah had regained his last absent iota of dignity. Content, he made himself regally comfortable in a rear corner, much to the relief of the regular patrons of the limited drinking area.
Taking seats in finely made chairs of wicker and cloth, the two travelers luxuriated in the comfort of drinks with actual ice. This striking and unexpected phenomenon so intrigued Ehomba that he insisted they linger over their refreshment. Those seated in their immediate vicinity proved willing listeners to their tales of travels in far-off lands. Expanding in his element, Simna proceeded to embroider the truth and fill in the gaps with extemporaneous invention. Whenever the swordsman would unload a particularly egregious fiction on the audience of rapt listeners, Ehomba would throw him a disapproving frown. These his loquacious companion would studiously ignore. Meanwhile, snug in his corner, Ahlitah slumbered on.
In this manner, plied with cold drinks by an eager and attentive audience, they passed not only the rest of the afternoon but a good portion of the early evening. Eventually though, it appeared that even Simna ibn Sind’s fertile narrative was beginning to pale as their once fervent fans began to drift away and out of the store in ones and twos, taking their day’s purchases with them.
At last it was pitch dark outside, and their audience had been reduced to two: a pair of husky, bearded manual laborers of approximately the same age as the travelers themselves. Their manner of departure, however, was as unforeseen as it was abrupt.
Catching sight of the blackened street just visible through the distant main entrance, the slightly smaller of the two rose suddenly. His eyes were wide as he clutched at his still seated companion’s shoulder.
“Nadoun! Look outside!”
The other man’s jaw dropped. He whirled to glare at the man behind the compact bar. That worthy spoke solemnly as he finished putting up the last of his glassware.
“That’s right. Ye lads best get a move on or you’ll have to make your way home—after.”
“Why did ye not warn us?” The first man’s tone was strained and accusatory.
This time the proprietor looked up from his work. “Ye be grown men. I am a tradesman, not a baby-sitter.”
Were it not for the terrified expressions on their faces, it would have been comical to watch the two men fight frantically to don their fine evening jackets and flee the general store. The shorter of the two flung a handful of money at the proprietor, not bothering either to count it or wait for his change.
Smacking his lips, Simna set his goblet down on the table in front of him and inquired casually of the shopkeeper as he knelt to pick the scattered coins off the floor, “What was that all about?”
The heavyset merchant sported a florid black mustache that curled upwards at the ends. It contrasted starkly with his gleaming pate, which was as devoid of hair as a ceramic mixing bowl. Perhaps in compensation, his eyebrows were ferocious.
“You don’t know?” Straightening, he let the fruits of his coin gathering tumble into the commodious front pocket of his rough cotton apron. “You really don’t, do ye?”
“It would appear not.” Ehomba toyed with the rim of his own drinking utensil. “Could you shed some illumination on our ignorance for us?”
Shaking his head in disbelief, the proprietor came out from behind the bar and approached their table. His expression was thoroughly disapproving. As near as Ehomba could tell, they were alone in the establishment with