Into the thinking kingdoms - Alan Dean Foster [9]
“I can fix it so you make it safely to Hamacassar. From there on, you’re on your own.”
“Not up to the journey yourself?” Simna was toying idly with the hilt of his sword.
“Not me, no. My business is here. Only fools and idiots would attempt such a journey.”
“I see.” The swordsman’s fingers danced faster over the sword hilt. “And I ask, by Glespthin, which, in your opinion, are we?”
Bin Grue was not in the least intimidated by Simna’s suggestive behavior. “Supply your own definitions. That’s not my job. You want to get across the Semordria? Take my advice and head northwest to Hamacassar. You won’t find a ship here, that’s for sure.”
“We would be glad to accept any advice you can give,” Ehomba assured him politely.
The smile that appeared briefly on the trader’s face was as terse as his manner of speech. “Good! But not here. My guidance is for my friends and my customers, not for passing noseybodies.”
“And again I say,” Simna murmured, “which are we?”
“Both, I hope.” With a grunt that would have done a warthog proud, the trader pivoted and beckoned for them to follow.
Simna had more to say, but with Ehomba already striding along in the other man’s wake, he held his questions. Time enough to quiz this brusque barterer before they found themselves in too deep with someone who might turn out to be all talk and no substance. Simna was ready to give the man credit for one thing, though: virtuous or prevaricator, he was one tough son of a bitch. Throughout the course of the conversation he hadn’t flinched once, not even when the swordsman had shown signs of readiness to draw his weapon and put an end to the discussion on an abrupt note.
Looking over his shoulder, he called out to the third member of their party. “Pull your snout out of that rank keg, cat, and catch up!”
Mouth full of bait fish, Ahlitah looked over at him and growled. Though it was directed at Simna and not them, two of the three fishermen took the imposing rumble as a sign to make a precipitous entry into the turgid water of the harbor, while the third dropped to his knees and prayed. Ignoring them, the massive black cat trotted off in pursuit of his two-legged companions, occasionally pausing briefly to shake first one paw and then another in a vain attempt to flick away the fishy water that clung to his toes.
As their new guide led them deeper and deeper into the maze of tightly packed buildings that crowded the waterfront, Simna ibn Sind stayed close to his tall, solemn-visaged companion.
“Where’s this fat fixer leading us? I don’t like narrow alleys and empty walkways and dead-end closes even when I know their names.” He eyed uneasily the high stone walls that pressed close on all sides.
“A good question.” Ehomba raised his voice. “Where are you taking us, Haramos bin Grue?”
The trader looked back and grinned. Ehomba was adept at interpreting expressions, and bin Grue’s seemed genuine enough, if tight. He smiled like a man having difficulty moving his bowels.
“You look tired, and hungry. I thought we’d discuss our business over some food and drink.” He turned to his left, into a constricted close, and halted. “Be of good cheer. We’re here.”
They found themselves waiting while their guide pushed repeatedly on a shuttered door. It was a bland slab of wood, devoid of ornamentation, wholly utilitarian and in no way suggestive that gustatory delights might lie beyond. Dust spilled from around the eaves and it groaned in protest as it was forced inward.
Simna whispered tautly. “Doesn’t look like a real popular place. In fact, it doesn’t look like any sort of place at all.”
“Perhaps the dreary exterior is a camouflage of some sort.” Ehomba remained hopeful. “The inside may be a revelation.”
It was, but not in the sense the herdsman hoped. Trailing bin Grue, they found themselves in a large, dusty warehouse. The center of the high-ceilinged structure was empty, its floor of pegged, heavily scored wood planks. A rotting pile of hoary crates occupied a far corner while