Into the Thinking Kingdoms: Journeys of the Catechist, Book 2 by Alan Dean Foster
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 the owner. All other customers and employees had long since departed.
With a thick finger their reluctant host indicated the wooden clock placed high on a small shelf. “D’ye know what that portends?”
Unfamiliar with mechanical clocks, Ehomba kept silent. But Simna nodded once, brusquely. “It ‘portends’ that it’s twenty minutes to midnight. So?”
The merchant looked past them, toward the main entrance, and his tone softened slightly. “Midnight is the witching hour.”
“Depends where you happen to be.” Kicking back in his chair, the swordsman put his feet up on the table and crossed them at the ankles. “In Vwalta, the capital of Drelestan, it’s the drinks-all-around hour. In Poulemata it’s the time-for-bed hour.”
“Well here,” the proprietor observed sharply, “it be the witching hour.”
“For a good part of the evening those two men were relaxed and enjoying themselves in our company,” Ehomba pointed out. “When they realized the time they became frantic.” He turned in his chair to look outside. On the silent, night-shrouded street, nothing moved. “What happens at this witching hour? Do witches suddenly appear?”
“Nothing so straightforward, friend.” Quietly annoyed, the owner glanced meaningfully at Simna’s sandaled feet where they reposed on the table. The swordsman responded with a good-natured smile and left his feet where they were. “If it were only a matter of the occasional witch, no one would care, and there would be no need for the Covenant.”
“What is this Covenant?” An unpleasant, tingling sensation made Ehomba feel that they were going to have to leave their comfortable surroundings in a hurry. He made sure that his pack and weapons were close at hand.
Leaning back against the bar, the proprietor crossed his arms over his lower chest, above his protuberant belly, and regarded them sorrowfully. “Ye have never been to Phan before, have ye, or heard of it in your travelings?”
The herdsman shook his head. “This is our first time in this part of the world.” Off in his corner, Ahlitah snored on, blissfully indifferent to the prattlings of men.
Their host sighed deeply. “Long, long ago, the province of Phan was known as the Haunted Land. Though it was, and is, surrounded by fertile countries populated by happy people, Phan itself was shunned except for those daring travelers who passed through it on the river Shornorai, which flows through its northern districts. Even they were not safe from attack.”
“From attack?” Simna’s eyes were slightly glazed, a consequence of downing all the free drinks that had been contributed by their now vanished audience. “By whom?”
Hirsute brows drawing together, the owner regarded him sternly. “Not by whom, friend. By what. It is a well-known fact that Phan has always provided a home to the dregs and rabble of the Otherworlds, to the noisome trash that is too debased and depraved to find asylum in those regions where such creatures normally dwell.” He looked down at his arms and apron. “All spirits and entities need a place to abide, even the most wicked and corrupt. Phan was that place. They congregated here, making this fine land uninhabitable, preying upon and tormenting any daring enough to try and homestead its fruitful plains and lush river valleys.”
“Obviously, something happened to change that,” Ehomba observed. Simna was listening more closely now, drawn not only to the proprietor’s story but to the growing feeling that it just might have something to do with the hysterical egression of their last two listeners.
The owner nodded. “Led by Yaw Cresthelmare the Immutable, distant and greatest ancestor of the present Count Tyrahnar the Enlightened and founder of the dynasty of Phan, a great gathering of opportunists and migrants resolved to test the limits of the befouled occupiers of this land. The momentous battle that ensued raged for years. Many died, but were replaced by hopeful pilgrims from elsewhere. The debased and profane suffered far fewer casualties, for the dead are hard to kill, but neither could they drive the determined Yaw and his followers from Phan. Whenever they wiped out a cluster of pitiful, newly established huts or a wagon full of would-be immigrants, a new squatter’s camp would spring up elsewhere.”
Ehomba indicated the fine, well-stocked store in which they sat. “Yet here we sit, in the midst of much comfort, and in passing through your land we saw no sign of the kind of devastation to which you allude.”
“As I be saying, this all took place long ago.” Uncrossing his arms, the owner moved back behind the bar. “Neither side could wholly defeat the other. The degraded had the resources of all the dark crafts at their disposal, but they could not wreak havoc and destruction everywhere at once. The followers of Yaw had on their side numbers and persistence. Eventually, by mutual agreement, an accommodation was reached.” He shook his head at the audacity of it. “Yaw Cresthelmare was a great man. Imagine, if you will, sitting down to negotiate with goblins and apparitions and demons so vile they are not even welcome in Hell.”
Ehomba looked thoughtful. “And the result, it was this Covenant you speak of?”
“Yes. The Inhuman tried everything to trick Yaw, but it was not for nothing that he was christened the Immutable, and that Phan and its neighbors are called the Thinking Kingdoms. The terms of the Covenant were set solid as the stone that underlies Phan itself, and bolted directly to it. The debased could not breach the terms, nor even bend them.”
“These terms ... ?” A now fully attentive Simna left the question hanging.
Elaboration was not needed. “The day was given to the followers of Yaw, made theirs in which to live and love, to cultivate and populate the land of Phan as they should see fit. In return, the corrupted and disembodied and their ilk were given the deepest part of the night, to roam freely wherever they might choose from midnight ’til dawn, free from insult, attack, or exorcism by the humans who had so forcefully settled among them.”
Simna laughed uneasily as he eyed the now suggestive darkness that ruled the street beyond the still unbarred door. “I’d think that would make for some unsettled sleeping.”
“Not so.” The proprietor smiled thinly. “The impure keep to their compact.” He nodded in the direction of the entrance. “If you will look down as you travel through Phan, you will see that the entrance to every building is circumscribed by a strip of pure copper the width of a man’s thumb. This the specters of the night will not cross. It is so established in the Covenant. Behind that copper line, in any building, one is safe not only in body but in dreams. Step outside that line between midnight and dawn and ...” He shuddered slightly, as if a quick, sharp blast of cold air had just passed over his body and through his soul.
A no longer smiling Simna set his goblet aside and brooded on the import of the proprietor’s words. “You’re fair game.”
“Just so,” the owner conceded. “And now ye must be moving along.”
“What!” The swordsman did not remove his feet from the table so much as yank them off. “After what you just told us you mean to throw us out into the night?”
“I do.” The owner’s response was firm. “I accord ye no greater hospital
ity than I did that pair that left moments ago, and in haste. Now you know the reason for their flight. This is a general store, not an inn.” He glanced significantly at the clock, whose soft wooden ticks had grown much louder in the room. “You have time yet. There is a boardinghouse around the corner, only a block distant. It is a modest establishment, but clean and reasonable. The owners are good friends of mine, and not unused to greeting apprehensive patrons caught out celebrating too late to make it back to their homes. A spirited dash of but a few seconds will see you safely there. The street is empty and clear.”
“By Gobolloba, let’s get out of here!” The swordsman scrambled to slip his arms through the straps of his pack, not forgetting his sword, nor to drain the last drops of liquid gratification from his goblet.
Rising from his chair, Ehomba moved quickly but without panic to rouse Ahlitah from his feline slumber. The big cat was slow to awaken. As Ehomba knelt by its side and spoke softly, Simna fairly danced with impatience in front of their table, his eyes flicking rapidly and repeatedly from his companions to the brooding darkness outside.
“For Gudgeon’s sake, will you hurry! Spit in his ear, already! Kick him in the balls. Get him up! Unwilling to kick the litah himself, the swordsman had to be content with flailing at the floor.
Rising on all four powerful, attenuated legs, the big cat stretched and yawned languorously while Simna could only look on and grind his teeth helplessly.
“If your hairy majesty would be so kind as to join us in departing,” he finally snapped, “it would behoove us to get the hell out of here.”
The litah yawned again as he began padding toward the exit. “Ehomba explained things to me.”
“Then why aren’t you moving faster?” Knowing it would only provoke a delaying confrontation, the swordsman refrained from whacking the cat across its backside with the flat of his blade.
It was Ehomba who responded. “The street appears deserted, and it is not yet midnight, but it is a wise man who checks the ground outside his house before running wildly into the night.”
“Hoy, all right. But let’s not delay.” Simna’s sharp eyes were already scanning what he could see of the street to north and south as they approached the doorway.
“You worry needlessly.” The proprietor was trailing behind them. A brass ring heavy with keys hung from one hand. “The dead are very punctual.”
As they reached the portal, Ehomba looked down. Sure enough, a copper strip gleamed metallically beneath his feet. Inlaid in and bolted to the thick planking, it shone with the light of regular polishing. He stepped over it.
Nothing happened. The night was still and the coolness a relief from the heat of the day. In both directions, neatly shuttered shops looked out on the silent street. Flowers bloomed in window boxes, their blossoms shut against the cold until the next coming of the sun. Someone had washed and swept not only the sidewalks but the road itself. All was orderly, well groomed, and deserted.
Simna and Ahlitah crossed the threshold behind the herdsman. To prove that his words had meaning, the proprietor followed them outside onto the small covered porch that fronted the store. He showed no fear, and Simna allowed himself to relax a little as their erstwhile host pointed.
“Five storefronts that way and ye will find yourselves at the corner. Turn right. The boardinghouse will be the fourth door on your left. Knock firmly lest ye not be heard. And a good night t’ye.”
Stepping back inside, he shut the door behind them. Looking through the glass, Ehomba could see him rotating a large brass key in the lock.
“What are we standing here like stupefied goats for? We only have a couple of minutes.” Without waiting for his friends, Simna broke into a sprint. Ehomba and Ahlitah followed, running from need but not desperation.
They made it to the corner, but did not turn it.
“What was that?” Ehomba came to an abrupt stop.
“What was what?” Breathing as quietly as possible, Simna halted a few feet in front of the herdsman. “I didn’t hear anything. Hoy, what are you looking for?”
Ehomba was peering into the depths of a dark close between two silent, darkened buildings. Simna would not have thought it an activity worth pursuing at the best of times, which the present most emphatically was not. As he looked on in disbelief, the tall southerner stepped into the shadows that were even darker than the surrounding night. With the time beginning to weigh heavily on him and knowing it would not wait or slow its pace for any man, the swordsman moved to place a forceful hand on his companion’s arm.
“What do you think you’re doing, bruther? I’ve been late to funerals, and late to appointments, and late to meet with friends on a fine summer’s night, but I don’t want to be late to the door of this boardinghouse. Come on! Whatever piece of trash has piqued your inexplicable interest will still be there in the morning.” Behind them the litah waited quietly, contemplating the abandoned street.
“No,” Ehomba replied in his usual soft but unshakable tone, “I do not think that it will.”
Within the hidden depths of the close, something moaned. The hackles on the swordsman’s neck bristled at the sound. Tight-lipped, he tried to drag his friend back onto the sidewalk. Ehomba resisted.
The moan came again, and while Simna did not relax, some of the fearful tension oozed out of him. It was manifestly a human throat that had produced that muffled lamentation, and not some gibbering perversion set loose from the nether regions of unimaginable perdition.
“Here.” The dim outline of the herdsman could be seen picking its way through the rubble. “Over this way.”
Muttering under his breath, the swordsman lurched forward, cursing as he stumbled over discarded containers, rotting foodstuffs, and equally pungent but less mentionable offal.
The figure Ehomba was trying to help to its feet was slight to the point of emaciation. It was a man; a very little man indeed, barely four feet tall. It was hard to judge because despite the herdsman’s strong supportive arm, the figure’s legs seemed to have trouble working. They exhibited a distinct tendency to wander off by themselves, as if possessed of their own individual itineraries. Understandably, this caused some small difficulty to the rest of the attached body.
Once Simna got his arm beneath the man’s other shoulder, the two travelers were able to walk the hapless figure out of the close. He weighed very little. Back out on the sidewalk, they set him down, leaning him up against a wall. The swordsman wiped distastefully at his arm. The frail figure was rank as a wallowing boar and the stink attached to him displayed an unwholesome tendency to rub off on anyone making contact with it. Glancing in the humans’ direction, Ahlitah wrinkled his nose in disgust.
“Who are you?” Somehow ignoring the stench, Ehomba knelt to place his own face close to that of the barely breathing little man. “We would like to help you. Do you know what time it is?” He nodded toward the dark, empty street. “You cannot stay here, like this.”
“Glad to hear you say it, bruther.” Apprehensive and impatient, Simna stood nearby, his keen gaze anxiously patrolling the roadway. “Can we go now? Please?”
“Not until we help this poor unfortunate. If necessary, we will bring him with us.” The herdsman looked up at his companion. “I will not abandon him to the kind of fate the shopkeeper told us skulks through this city late at night.”
“All right, fine! There isn’t time to argue. Let’s get him back on his feet, then.” Simna bent to help the vagrant rise once more, only to draw back just in time as the figure forestalled its incipient deliverance by spewing the contents of his stomach all over the sidewalk.
“By Gieirwall, what a foulness!” Turning his back on the slumping frame, Simna inhaled deeply of fresh night air. Ehomba held his ground, though he was careful to keep out of the line of fire.
Slight as he was, the pitiful fellow had very little left in his stomach to regurgitate. That did not stop him from puking for another minute or so. In counterpoint to his rasping dry heaves,
bells rang out solemnly the length and breadth of the city, simultaneously announcing and decrying the arrival of midnight.
“That’s torn it,” the swordsman muttered. “We’ve got to get out of here. Now.” Bending low but keeping his face turned as much away from the fellow as possible, he spoke in words harsh and distinct. “Did you hear that, whoever you are? It’s midnight, and if all we were told is true, the defiled can now freely roam the streets in accordance with your damned Covenant. It is time, friend, to move your bony ass. Why Ehomba wants to save it I don’t know. If it was up to me, I’d leave you here, pickings for whatever shambles along.”
Rheumy yellow eyes turned to meet the swordsman’s. A shaky smile materialized on the bewhiskered, unwholesome face. Pressing one unsteady finger to the side of the tapering, twice-broken nose, the figure replied in a boozy cackle.
“Knucker knows, Knucker does!” Upon delivering himself of this proclamation, he blew yellow-green snot in the direction of the swordsman’s sandals.
Simna hopped deftly aside. “Hoy, watch what you’re doing, you putrefying little relic! Who the Gwerwhon do you think you are?” To Ehomba he added, “He’s stinking rotten drunk. By the look and sound and smell of him, he’s been that way for some time.”
Bracing his scrawny back against the wall, the man rose to an approximation of a standing position. “Didn’t you hear what I said? Don’t you know who I am?”
“No,” Simna growled as he tried to listen and watch both ends of the stygian street at the same time. “Who are you, you walking pile of fossilized spew?”
Frowning uncertainly, the man drew himself more or less up to his full, unimpressive height. “I am Knucker. Knucker the Knower.” The precarious smile essayed a tentative reappearance. “I know everything.” He focused on Ehomba. “Ask me a question. Go on, ask me a question. Anything.”
“Maybe later.” Gently gripping the fluttering leaf of a man by his shoulder, the herdsman managed to get him turned up the street. “My friend is right. We have to go now.”
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 the owner. All other customers and employees had long since departed.
With a thick finger their reluctant host indicated the wooden clock placed high on a small shelf. “D’ye know what that portends?”
Unfamiliar with mechanical clocks, Ehomba kept silent. But Simna nodded once, brusquely. “It ‘portends’ that it’s twenty minutes to midnight. So?”
The merchant looked past them, toward the main entrance, and his tone softened slightly. “Midnight is the witching hour.”
“Depends where you happen to be.” Kicking back in his chair, the swordsman put his feet up on the table and crossed them at the ankles. “In Vwalta, the capital of Drelestan, it’s the drinks-all-around hour. In Poulemata it’s the time-for-bed hour.”
“Well here,” the proprietor observed sharply, “it be the witching hour.”
“For a good part of the evening those two men were relaxed and enjoying themselves in our company,” Ehomba pointed out. “When they realized the time they became frantic.” He turned in his chair to look outside. On the silent, night-shrouded street, nothing moved. “What happens at this witching hour? Do witches suddenly appear?”
“Nothing so straightforward, friend.” Quietly annoyed, the owner glanced meaningfully at Simna’s sandaled feet where they reposed on the table. The swordsman responded with a good-natured smile and left his feet where they were. “If it were only a matter of the occasional witch, no one would care, and there would be no need for the Covenant.”
“What is this Covenant?” An unpleasant, tingling sensation made Ehomba feel that they were going to have to leave their comfortable surroundings in a hurry. He made sure that his pack and weapons were close at hand.
Leaning back against the bar, the proprietor crossed his arms over his lower chest, above his protuberant belly, and regarded them sorrowfully. “Ye have never been to Phan before, have ye, or heard of it in your travelings?”
The herdsman shook his head. “This is our first time in this part of the world.” Off in his corner, Ahlitah snored on, blissfully indifferent to the prattlings of men.
Their host sighed deeply. “Long, long ago, the province of Phan was known as the Haunted Land. Though it was, and is, surrounded by fertile countries populated by happy people, Phan itself was shunned except for those daring travelers who passed through it on the river Shornorai, which flows through its northern districts. Even they were not safe from attack.”
“From attack?” Simna’s eyes were slightly glazed, a consequence of downing all the free drinks that had been contributed by their now vanished audience. “By whom?”
Hirsute brows drawing together, the owner regarded him sternly. “Not by whom, friend. By what. It is a well-known fact that Phan has always provided a home to the dregs and rabble of the Otherworlds, to the noisome trash that is too debased and depraved to find asylum in those regions where such creatures normally dwell.” He looked down at his arms and apron. “All spirits and entities need a place to abide, even the most wicked and corrupt. Phan was that place. They congregated here, making this fine land uninhabitable, preying upon and tormenting any daring enough to try and homestead its fruitful plains and lush river valleys.”
“Obviously, something happened to change that,” Ehomba observed. Simna was listening more closely now, drawn not only to the proprietor’s story but to the growing feeling that it just might have something to do with the hysterical egression of their last two listeners.
The owner nodded. “Led by Yaw Cresthelmare the Immutable, distant and greatest ancestor of the present Count Tyrahnar the Enlightened and founder of the dynasty of Phan, a great gathering of opportunists and migrants resolved to test the limits of the befouled occupiers of this land. The momentous battle that ensued raged for years. Many died, but were replaced by hopeful pilgrims from elsewhere. The debased and profane suffered far fewer casualties, for the dead are hard to kill, but neither could they drive the determined Yaw and his followers from Phan. Whenever they wiped out a cluster of pitiful, newly established huts or a wagon full of would-be immigrants, a new squatter’s camp would spring up elsewhere.”
Ehomba indicated the fine, well-stocked store in which they sat. “Yet here we sit, in the midst of much comfort, and in passing through your land we saw no sign of the kind of devastation to which you allude.”
“As I be saying, this all took place long ago.” Uncrossing his arms, the owner moved back behind the bar. “Neither side could wholly defeat the other. The degraded had the resources of all the dark crafts at their disposal, but they could not wreak havoc and destruction everywhere at once. The followers of Yaw had on their side numbers and persistence. Eventually, by mutual agreement, an accommodation was reached.” He shook his head at the audacity of it. “Yaw Cresthelmare was a great man. Imagine, if you will, sitting down to negotiate with goblins and apparitions and demons so vile they are not even welcome in Hell.”
Ehomba looked thoughtful. “And the result, it was this Covenant you speak of?”
“Yes. The Inhuman tried everything to trick Yaw, but it was not for nothing that he was christened the Immutable, and that Phan and its neighbors are called the Thinking Kingdoms. The terms of the Covenant were set solid as the stone that underlies Phan itself, and bolted directly to it. The debased could not breach the terms, nor even bend them.”
“These terms ... ?” A now fully attentive Simna left the question hanging.
Elaboration was not needed. “The day was given to the followers of Yaw, made theirs in which to live and love, to cultivate and populate the land of Phan as they should see fit. In return, the corrupted and disembodied and their ilk were given the deepest part of the night, to roam freely wherever they might choose from midnight ’til dawn, free from insult, attack, or exorcism by the humans who had so forcefully settled among them.”
Simna laughed uneasily as he eyed the now suggestive darkness that ruled the street beyond the still unbarred door. “I’d think that would make for some unsettled sleeping.”
“Not so.” The proprietor smiled thinly. “The impure keep to their compact.” He nodded in the direction of the entrance. “If you will look down as you travel through Phan, you will see that the entrance to every building is circumscribed by a strip of pure copper the width of a man’s thumb. This the specters of the night will not cross. It is so established in the Covenant. Behind that copper line, in any building, one is safe not only in body but in dreams. Step outside that line between midnight and dawn and ...” He shuddered slightly, as if a quick, sharp blast of cold air had just passed over his body and through his soul.
A no longer smiling Simna set his goblet aside and brooded on the import of the proprietor’s words. “You’re fair game.”
“Just so,” the owner conceded. “And now ye must be moving along.”
“What!” The swordsman did not remove his feet from the table so much as yank them off. “After what you just told us you mean to throw us out into the night?”
“I do.” The owner’s response was firm. “I accord ye no greater hospital
“By Gobolloba, let’s get out of here!” The swordsman scrambled to slip his arms through the straps of his pack, not forgetting his sword, nor to drain the last drops of liquid gratification from his goblet.
Rising from his chair, Ehomba moved quickly but without panic to rouse Ahlitah from his feline slumber. The big cat was slow to awaken. As Ehomba knelt by its side and spoke softly, Simna fairly danced with impatience in front of their table, his eyes flicking rapidly and repeatedly from his companions to the brooding darkness outside.
“For Gudgeon’s sake, will you hurry! Spit in his ear, already! Kick him in the balls. Get him up! Unwilling to kick the litah himself, the swordsman had to be content with flailing at the floor.
Rising on all four powerful, attenuated legs, the big cat stretched and yawned languorously while Simna could only look on and grind his teeth helplessly.
“If your hairy majesty would be so kind as to join us in departing,” he finally snapped, “it would behoove us to get the hell out of here.”
The litah yawned again as he began padding toward the exit. “Ehomba explained things to me.”
“Then why aren’t you moving faster?” Knowing it would only provoke a delaying confrontation, the swordsman refrained from whacking the cat across its backside with the flat of his blade.
It was Ehomba who responded. “The street appears deserted, and it is not yet midnight, but it is a wise man who checks the ground outside his house before running wildly into the night.”
“Hoy, all right. But let’s not delay.” Simna’s sharp eyes were already scanning what he could see of the street to north and south as they approached the doorway.
“You worry needlessly.” The proprietor was trailing behind them. A brass ring heavy with keys hung from one hand. “The dead are very punctual.”
As they reached the portal, Ehomba looked down. Sure enough, a copper strip gleamed metallically beneath his feet. Inlaid in and bolted to the thick planking, it shone with the light of regular polishing. He stepped over it.
Nothing happened. The night was still and the coolness a relief from the heat of the day. In both directions, neatly shuttered shops looked out on the silent street. Flowers bloomed in window boxes, their blossoms shut against the cold until the next coming of the sun. Someone had washed and swept not only the sidewalks but the road itself. All was orderly, well groomed, and deserted.
Simna and Ahlitah crossed the threshold behind the herdsman. To prove that his words had meaning, the proprietor followed them outside onto the small covered porch that fronted the store. He showed no fear, and Simna allowed himself to relax a little as their erstwhile host pointed.
“Five storefronts that way and ye will find yourselves at the corner. Turn right. The boardinghouse will be the fourth door on your left. Knock firmly lest ye not be heard. And a good night t’ye.”
Stepping back inside, he shut the door behind them. Looking through the glass, Ehomba could see him rotating a large brass key in the lock.
“What are we standing here like stupefied goats for? We only have a couple of minutes.” Without waiting for his friends, Simna broke into a sprint. Ehomba and Ahlitah followed, running from need but not desperation.
They made it to the corner, but did not turn it.
“What was that?” Ehomba came to an abrupt stop.
“What was what?” Breathing as quietly as possible, Simna halted a few feet in front of the herdsman. “I didn’t hear anything. Hoy, what are you looking for?”
Ehomba was peering into the depths of a dark close between two silent, darkened buildings. Simna would not have thought it an activity worth pursuing at the best of times, which the present most emphatically was not. As he looked on in disbelief, the tall southerner stepped into the shadows that were even darker than the surrounding night. With the time beginning to weigh heavily on him and knowing it would not wait or slow its pace for any man, the swordsman moved to place a forceful hand on his companion’s arm.
“What do you think you’re doing, bruther? I’ve been late to funerals, and late to appointments, and late to meet with friends on a fine summer’s night, but I don’t want to be late to the door of this boardinghouse. Come on! Whatever piece of trash has piqued your inexplicable interest will still be there in the morning.” Behind them the litah waited quietly, contemplating the abandoned street.
“No,” Ehomba replied in his usual soft but unshakable tone, “I do not think that it will.”
Within the hidden depths of the close, something moaned. The hackles on the swordsman’s neck bristled at the sound. Tight-lipped, he tried to drag his friend back onto the sidewalk. Ehomba resisted.
The moan came again, and while Simna did not relax, some of the fearful tension oozed out of him. It was manifestly a human throat that had produced that muffled lamentation, and not some gibbering perversion set loose from the nether regions of unimaginable perdition.
“Here.” The dim outline of the herdsman could be seen picking its way through the rubble. “Over this way.”
Muttering under his breath, the swordsman lurched forward, cursing as he stumbled over discarded containers, rotting foodstuffs, and equally pungent but less mentionable offal.
The figure Ehomba was trying to help to its feet was slight to the point of emaciation. It was a man; a very little man indeed, barely four feet tall. It was hard to judge because despite the herdsman’s strong supportive arm, the figure’s legs seemed to have trouble working. They exhibited a distinct tendency to wander off by themselves, as if possessed of their own individual itineraries. Understandably, this caused some small difficulty to the rest of the attached body.
Once Simna got his arm beneath the man’s other shoulder, the two travelers were able to walk the hapless figure out of the close. He weighed very little. Back out on the sidewalk, they set him down, leaning him up against a wall. The swordsman wiped distastefully at his arm. The frail figure was rank as a wallowing boar and the stink attached to him displayed an unwholesome tendency to rub off on anyone making contact with it. Glancing in the humans’ direction, Ahlitah wrinkled his nose in disgust.
“Who are you?” Somehow ignoring the stench, Ehomba knelt to place his own face close to that of the barely breathing little man. “We would like to help you. Do you know what time it is?” He nodded toward the dark, empty street. “You cannot stay here, like this.”
“Glad to hear you say it, bruther.” Apprehensive and impatient, Simna stood nearby, his keen gaze anxiously patrolling the roadway. “Can we go now? Please?”
“Not until we help this poor unfortunate. If necessary, we will bring him with us.” The herdsman looked up at his companion. “I will not abandon him to the kind of fate the shopkeeper told us skulks through this city late at night.”
“All right, fine! There isn’t time to argue. Let’s get him back on his feet, then.” Simna bent to help the vagrant rise once more, only to draw back just in time as the figure forestalled its incipient deliverance by spewing the contents of his stomach all over the sidewalk.
“By Gieirwall, what a foulness!” Turning his back on the slumping frame, Simna inhaled deeply of fresh night air. Ehomba held his ground, though he was careful to keep out of the line of fire.
Slight as he was, the pitiful fellow had very little left in his stomach to regurgitate. That did not stop him from puking for another minute or so. In counterpoint to his rasping dry heaves,
“That’s torn it,” the swordsman muttered. “We’ve got to get out of here. Now.” Bending low but keeping his face turned as much away from the fellow as possible, he spoke in words harsh and distinct. “Did you hear that, whoever you are? It’s midnight, and if all we were told is true, the defiled can now freely roam the streets in accordance with your damned Covenant. It is time, friend, to move your bony ass. Why Ehomba wants to save it I don’t know. If it was up to me, I’d leave you here, pickings for whatever shambles along.”
Rheumy yellow eyes turned to meet the swordsman’s. A shaky smile materialized on the bewhiskered, unwholesome face. Pressing one unsteady finger to the side of the tapering, twice-broken nose, the figure replied in a boozy cackle.
“Knucker knows, Knucker does!” Upon delivering himself of this proclamation, he blew yellow-green snot in the direction of the swordsman’s sandals.
Simna hopped deftly aside. “Hoy, watch what you’re doing, you putrefying little relic! Who the Gwerwhon do you think you are?” To Ehomba he added, “He’s stinking rotten drunk. By the look and sound and smell of him, he’s been that way for some time.”
Bracing his scrawny back against the wall, the man rose to an approximation of a standing position. “Didn’t you hear what I said? Don’t you know who I am?”
“No,” Simna growled as he tried to listen and watch both ends of the stygian street at the same time. “Who are you, you walking pile of fossilized spew?”
Frowning uncertainly, the man drew himself more or less up to his full, unimpressive height. “I am Knucker. Knucker the Knower.” The precarious smile essayed a tentative reappearance. “I know everything.” He focused on Ehomba. “Ask me a question. Go on, ask me a question. Anything.”
“Maybe later.” Gently gripping the fluttering leaf of a man by his shoulder, the herdsman managed to get him turned up the street. “My friend is right. We have to go now.”