Into the thinking kingdoms - Alan Dean Foster [8]
“Gentlemen, gentlemen—there’s no need to argue between yourselves. Not when I’m here to help you.”
They turned together, tall herdsman and stocky easterner. His attention having been diverted by a barrel full of bait fish, Ahlitah ignored it all. The three fishermen who had been making use of the barrel lifted their poles from the water and silently and with wide eyes edged out of the cat’s way.
Ehomba studied the stranger. “Who are you, that you want to help those you do not know?”
The man stepped forward. “My name is Haramos bin Grue. I was passing by this very spot when I chanced to overhear your conversation with the captain of this ignoble vessel. Of course he refused your request.” The stranger eyed the nearby craft dubiously. “I wouldn’t trust that bass barge to convey my ass safely from one side of the harbor to the other, much less across the great Semordria.” He winked meaningfully. “You need a proper ship, crewed by men who are used to making such a crossing. Not fair-weather amateur sailors such as these.” He swung an arm wide, dismissing the entire harbor and every boat docked or riding at anchor with a single wave.
Ehomba considered the individual who was so casual in impugning the professional capabilities of everyone he and his companions had sounded out that day. Pushy, to be sure, but did he know what he was talking about or was he merely being boastful?
It was impossible to tell simply by looking at him. A stump of a man, several inches shorter than Simna ibn Sind but without the swordsman’s incident-inspired musculature, bin Grue was nonetheless a solid specimen, from his short arms to the profound gut that, interestingly, did not quiver when he walked. A tart-smelling cigar protruded from one corner of his mouth, around which his very white, very even teeth were clamped as if on a loose coin. His eyes were deep set and his cheeks bantamweight duplicates of his belly. A fringe of wavy white hair crowned his large head, which protruded above the halo of fluff like a whale shoving its snout through old pack ice. Virtually nonexistent, his neck was a ring of squat muscle on which the impressive head sat and swiveled like a fire-throwing turret on a Vendesian warship. He did not speak words so much as saw them up into individual syllables, spitting out one after another like hunks of rough lumber awaiting the attention of some absent master carver.
For all the man’s affability and fine clothing, complete to high-strapped sandals, long pants, and puff-sleeved overshirt cut in a wide V down to the middle of his chest, Ehomba was uncertain as to his motives. Still, there was no harm in learning what he might have to offer.
“You know where we might find such a ship?”
“I certainly do. Not here, in this backass dimple on the Premmoisian coast. To find real sailors, you need to go north.” His eyes glittered with a recollection that might have been his—or bought, or borrowed. “For a ship to take you across the Semordria, you need to go to Hamacassar.”
Ehomba glanced over at Simna, who shrugged. “Never heard of the place.”
“The journey is long and difficult. Few know of Hamacassar, and even fewer have visited there.”
“But you have.” Ehomba was watching the shorter man closely.
“No.” Not in the least embarrassed by this admission, bin Grue masticated his fuming cigar as he met the herdsman’s unblinking stare. “Did you expect me to lie and say that I had?”
“Let’s just say that we wouldn’t have been shocked.” Simna watched the stranger closely, wishing to find promise in that broad face while at the same time warily searching for snakes. Behind him, Ahlitah was making a mess of the bait barrel and its contents. The barrel’s owners stood a goodly distance away, looking on helplessly.
“I won’t say that I never lie. I’m a businessman, and sometimes it’s a necessary constituent of my vocation. But I’m not lying to you now.” Pulling the cigar from his thick lips, he flicked the ash at its tip aside, heedless of where it might land, and replaced it between his teeth, clamping