Into the thinking kingdoms - Alan Dean Foster [88]
The owner trailed behind, anxious to query his visitors but fearful of pressing too close to the big cat. At the same time he dared not raise his voice lest he wake sleeping patrons and precipitate a panic. So he compromised by whispering as loudly as he could.
“Is it a room you want, or just a temporary refuge?” An intense desire to be rid of these eccentric vagabonds and the carnivore that accompanied them fought against his inherent good nature. At the same time he tried to place a distinctive and most disagreeable smell that did not, surprisingly, come from the big cat.
Ehomba looked wordlessly at his friend. With a sigh, Simna checked his remaining gold, knowing even as he did so that there was very little left. Still, if any of it was magicked, it might have reproduced while resting in his purse. A quick check revealed that the gold was still plain, ordinary gold. What remained was no more and no less than what he had seen there the last time.
“Hoy,” he exclaimed frostily as he let Knucker’s fetid arm slide off his shoulder, “we wouldn’t have had to go through all that if not for this maundering sot. It’s time for him to contribute to his own stinking survival.” Taking a deep breath before he did so, the swordsman put his face close to the drunkard’s. “Look here, you. Have you got any money?”
Bleary eyes struggled to focus. “What?”
Making a face, Simna momentarily turned away from the blast of liquorish vapors. “Money. Gold, convertibles, currency of the realm, legal tender. Have you got any?” When Knucker did not reply, the swordsman reached down and began going through the man’s pockets. Another time, Ehomba might have objected. But their financial condition was parlous, and any group of village elders gathered to pass judgment on the situation would have agreed that the fellow owed them something for saving his life.
Simna’s burrowing produced a handful of dirty coins. Recognizing them, the wavering Knucker tried to protest. “No—not my drinking money!” With one hand he made a grab for the metal disks, only to miss them and the swordsman by a wide margin. Unable to focus clearly, he could not properly judge the proximity of objects, even if the most prominent of those objects was one of his reluctant saviors.
Simna confronted the landlord. “It’s a room we want. You wouldn’t put a man back out on these streets in the middle of the night, would you?”
Hesitantly, the proprietor accepted the money, counting out only enough to pay for a single night’s stay. “You’ll, um, be gone in the morning?”
The swordsman’s reply was brusque. “We’re not hanging around to sample the delights of greater Phan, if that’s what you mean.”
“We are not tourists,” Ehomba added, stating the obvious. He continued to support Knucker by himself while Simna dealt with the landlord. The effort did not exhaust the herdsman. He was used to carrying young calves around, and the small man weighed very little.
The landlord sighed and nodded. “Very well. Come with me.” Edging around the litah’s bulk, he started up a set of wide wooden stairs. Having settled business, Simna moved to assist Ehomba with his limp burden.
“We appreciate you extending your hospitality to us at this late hour.” As they climbed, Ehomba admired the wallpaper and the small pictures that decorated the stairwell.
“You should,” the landlord grumbled. While leading the way, he sorted through a large iron ring heavy with keys.
“I—I need a drink,” Knucker mumbled.
Looking back, the proprietor gave him a disapproving look. “There is no liquor in this house.”
Vacant eyes struggled to meet the owner’s. “Yes there is. There are two bottles in a secret drawer in the bottom of your desk. One of brandy, another of whiskey. You hide them there from your wife.”
As stunned as if he had walked face-first into a lamppost, the landlord stopped on a landing where the stairs took a leftward turn. “How—how did you know that? Are you a wizard?” He