Read Online Into the Thinking Kingdoms by Alan Dean Foster - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Alan Dean Foster
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here without what we came for.”
“By Gittam’s eyelashes, that’s fine with me, Etjole—but we’d best hurry.” He indicated the massive padlock. “I can try my hand at that again, but the risk remains the same. Or is there some alchemy you can use on it?”
“I know no alchemy.”
“Right,” the swordsman retorted sardonically. “You only know twine.”
“That was not my doing. In the village there is a man called Akanauk. He is—simple. Here.” He tapped the side of his head. “The Naumkib are a tolerant folk, and he is left to himself, to be himself. When he needs food, it is given to him. Sleeping in a house makes him cry out in the night and wake the children, so some of us built him a platform high up in one of the village’s few trees. He climbs up there at night and there he lies and gurgles happily, like a baby.
“Akanauk does not farm, or help in the watching of the herds, or gather shellfish on the shore.” As he studied the cage and its single heavily drugged occupant, Ehomba again touched finger to temple. “He does not have the ability to do so. What he does is sit by himself and make things. Simple things. A necklace of colored beach pebbles like those I carry with me in my pocket, or a crown of mint leaves, or armlets of woven palm frond, or lengths of strong cord.”
Still watching the back door, Simna indicated that he understood. “So the village simpleton gave you a piece of his homemade string and you took it just to please him, and to remind you of home.”
“No,” the herdsman replied blandly. “I took it because a traveler never knows when he might need a piece of cord to tie something up.”
“Gellsteng knows it’s so. Now, use your wizardry to pick this lock so we can get out of here. Even as we speak, that slug bin Grue may be raising arms against us.”
“I cannot do anything with that lock. I do not have your skill with such things. And I am no wizard, Simna. You should know that by now.”
“Hoy, the evidence is all around me.” His gaze narrowed as his friend revealed a small bottle cupped in one hand. It was very tiny. Even when full, the swordsman estimated it could hold no more than a few drops.
The sound of running feet, striking distant stone like gathering rain, made him turn sharply. “If you’re going to do anything, you’d better do it quickly. They’re coming.”
Kneeling by the side of the cage, Ehomba put an arm between the bars and held the little bottle as close to the anesthetized Ahlitah’s head as possible. Laying his spear carefully by his side, he reached through the close-set bars with his other hand.
“You might want to step back a little,” he advised his companion.
Sword once more in hand, Simna was trying to watch the back door and the cage at the same time. “Why?” he asked pointedly. “Is some djinn going to burst from the phial? Are you going to use a special acid to dissolve away the bars?”
“Nothing like that.” The herdsman carefully loosened the bottle’s minuscule stopper. When it was almost free, he placed the thumb of his left hand against it and removed his right hand from the cage. This he used for the prosaic and decidedly unsorceral purpose of pinching his nostrils together.
Feet came pounding down unseen steps and the voices of alert, angry men could be heard shouting. “Hurry!” the swordsman admonished his companion. Even as he sounded a final warning he was backing away. Not from the door, nor from the cage, but from that tiny, undistinguished phial of cheap trade glass. Anything that made Etjole Ehomba want to hold his nose suggested strongly that others in the vicinity should be prepared to beat a hasty retreat.
As the back door was flung wide to reveal the stocky figure of Haramos bin Grue backed by a bevy of armed servants and soldiers, the herdsman’s thumb flicked the loosened stopper free. Simna saw nothing, but most perfumes are invisible to the eye. What wafted from the interior of
“By Gittam’s eyelashes, that’s fine with me, Etjole—but we’d best hurry.” He indicated the massive padlock. “I can try my hand at that again, but the risk remains the same. Or is there some alchemy you can use on it?”
“I know no alchemy.”
“Right,” the swordsman retorted sardonically. “You only know twine.”
“That was not my doing. In the village there is a man called Akanauk. He is—simple. Here.” He tapped the side of his head. “The Naumkib are a tolerant folk, and he is left to himself, to be himself. When he needs food, it is given to him. Sleeping in a house makes him cry out in the night and wake the children, so some of us built him a platform high up in one of the village’s few trees. He climbs up there at night and there he lies and gurgles happily, like a baby.
“Akanauk does not farm, or help in the watching of the herds, or gather shellfish on the shore.” As he studied the cage and its single heavily drugged occupant, Ehomba again touched finger to temple. “He does not have the ability to do so. What he does is sit by himself and make things. Simple things. A necklace of colored beach pebbles like those I carry with me in my pocket, or a crown of mint leaves, or armlets of woven palm frond, or lengths of strong cord.”
Still watching the back door, Simna indicated that he understood. “So the village simpleton gave you a piece of his homemade string and you took it just to please him, and to remind you of home.”
“No,” the herdsman replied blandly. “I took it because a traveler never knows when he might need a piece of cord to tie something up.”
“Gellsteng knows it’s so. Now, use your wizardry to pick this lock so we can get out of here. Even as we speak, that slug bin Grue may be raising arms against us.”
“I cannot do anything with that lock. I do not have your skill with such things. And I am no wizard, Simna. You should know that by now.”
“Hoy, the evidence is all around me.” His gaze narrowed as his friend revealed a small bottle cupped in one hand. It was very tiny. Even when full, the swordsman estimated it could hold no more than a few drops.
The sound of running feet, striking distant stone like gathering rain, made him turn sharply. “If you’re going to do anything, you’d better do it quickly. They’re coming.”
Kneeling by the side of the cage, Ehomba put an arm between the bars and held the little bottle as close to the anesthetized Ahlitah’s head as possible. Laying his spear carefully by his side, he reached through the close-set bars with his other hand.
“You might want to step back a little,” he advised his companion.
Sword once more in hand, Simna was trying to watch the back door and the cage at the same time. “Why?” he asked pointedly. “Is some djinn going to burst from the phial? Are you going to use a special acid to dissolve away the bars?”
“Nothing like that.” The herdsman carefully loosened the bottle’s minuscule stopper. When it was almost free, he placed the thumb of his left hand against it and removed his right hand from the cage. This he used for the prosaic and decidedly unsorceral purpose of pinching his nostrils together.
Feet came pounding down unseen steps and the voices of alert, angry men could be heard shouting. “Hurry!” the swordsman admonished his companion. Even as he sounded a final warning he was backing away. Not from the door, nor from the cage, but from that tiny, undistinguished phial of cheap trade glass. Anything that made Etjole Ehomba want to hold his nose suggested strongly that others in the vicinity should be prepared to beat a hasty retreat.
As the back door was flung wide to reveal the stocky figure of Haramos bin Grue backed by a bevy of armed servants and soldiers, the herdsman’s thumb flicked the loosened stopper free. Simna saw nothing, but most perfumes are invisible to the eye. What wafted from the interior of
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