Into the Thinking Kingdoms

by Alan Dean Foster

  “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 down with a bite of iron that threatened to sever the slowly smoking brown stalk.

  “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 several still intact casks boasting unimaginably aged contents were stacked against the opposite wall. Sunlight fought with varying degrees of success to penetrate the cracked veneer of grime and sea salt that partially opaqued the narrow, oblong upper windows. Responding to their entry, a small, distant shape sprang for cover. Ahlitah leaped after the rat, which, used to dodging and doing occasional battle with stray house cats, expired of heart failure at the sight of the pouncing black-maned behemoth. Settling himself down in a patch of feeble sunlight, the master of the open veldt crunched contentedly on the obscure but zestful morsel.

  Simna kept one hand on the hilt of his sword. The warehouse was quiet, deserted, and isolated—the perfect place for an ambush. Ehomba was his usual serene self, too slopping over with inner contentment to realize when he was in grave danger, the swordsman was convinced.

  “I’m looking for grog and all I see is rat piss,” he snapped at their guide. “Where’s this fine tavern you promised us?” He was all but ready to draw his sword and put an end to the bold but perjuring jabberer.

  “Right here.” Reaching into a pocket of his billowing shirt, the trader withdrew a small box. Both Ehomba and Simna came closer for a better look. The box was fashioned of some light-colored wood, perhaps lignum vitae. All six sides were inscribed with cryptic symbols whose meanings were a mystery to the two travelers.

  Grimacing suggestively, bin Grue moved to the center of the open floor, held the box carefully at eye height, and dropped it. Perhaps he also mumbled some words, or spat softly on the wood, or did something unseen with his hands. The box fell, bounced once, twice—and suddenly righted itself, shivering like a rabbit transfixed by the gaze of a hungry quoll.

  Retreating from the quivering cube, bin Grue advised his companions to do the same. “Give it room to breathe,” he told them. Without understanding what was happening, they both stepped back. Even Ahlitah looked up from the remnants of his rat, the tiny bit of remaining skeleton gleaming whitely from between his enormous front paws.

  The box popped open, its sides unfolding smoothly. These in turn unfolded again, multiplying with astonishing, accelerating speed. Light shot upward from the newly hatched sides, which melded together to form a floor. As the travelers watched in amazement and bin Grue stood with hands on hips nodding approvingly, the expanding box sides threw up other shapes. A bar rose from nothingness, complete to back wall decorated with mirrors and lascivious paintings. Tables appeared, and jars and jugs and mugs and tankards atop them. There was bright light that bounded from mirrors, and music from a trio of musicians only one of whom was human, and laughter, and shouting. Most remarkably of all, patrons appeared, arising out of the exponentially multiplying box sides. They took shape and form, hands lifting drinks and food to mouths. Some were drunk, some convivial, a few argumentative. Most laughed and guffawed as if they were having the categorical good time.

  A final box side unfolded a large cockroach, which immediately scurried for cover beneath the bar. Bin Grue frowned at it. “Been meaning to get rid of that. There’s such a thing as too much atmosphere.” Striding purposefully to an empty table, he bade them join him.

  More than a little dazed, they did so. Simna had removed his hand from the vicinity of his sword hilt. He continued to regard the trader warily, but with new respect. “So you’re not just some wandering merchant. You’re a powerful wizard. Well, don’t get any ideas.” He gestured at Ehomba. “So’s my lean and lanky friend here.”

  “Is he?” Bin Grue grunted speculatively. “Well, he needn’t worry about me trying to cast any spells while he’s around. I’m no sorcerer, swordsman. Just
a trader of goods and services, like I told you.”

  “But the box, all this . . . ?” Simna stared admiringly at the busy tavern that now filled the formerly empty warehouse.

  The trader nodded. “Fine piece of work, isn’t it? Hard to find this kind of craftsmanship anymore these days. I told you that I’m no wizard, and I meant it. But I do business with anyone and everyone. My specialty is the rare and exotic. Inventory sometimes brings me in contact with those who practice magic.” He peered steadfastly at Ehomba. “If you’re truly a sorcerer, as your friend claims, then you’ll know that even the greatest of necromancers can’t always conjure up what they need. That’s where someone like myself steps in.” He indicated a small stain on the floor. A square stain, the color of polished lignum vitae. “I acquired the tavern box from an elderly witch woman of Tarsis. She offered me three models: ordinary, with additional gold, or the deluxe. I chose the deluxe.”

  “What was the difference?” a curious Ehomba asked.

  Sitting forward in his chair, bin Grue hefted a tankard that, miraculously, was already full. When he drank, it was full bore and without delicacy. Beer dribbled from his heavy lips and he was quick to wipe the errant droplets away. In his drinking habits as with his manner of speaking he was foursquare and blunt, but no slob.

  “The ordinary boxes contain only the tavern. No accessories.” He took another swallow. “I like the atmosphere the patrons add.”

  Simna was watching people eat and drink and make merry all around them. “Are they real? Or only phantasms? Could I put my hand through one of them?”

  Bin Grue chuckled. “Can you put your hand through the chair you’re sitting on? I wouldn’t try it. An ignominious fate, to be thrown out of a nonexistent tavern by artificial habitués.” His eyes gleamed and his voice darkened slightly. “Besides, if you get in a fight with any of them you’re liable to find yourself sucked down into the box when it shrinks back in upon itself. The spell only holds for a finite amount of time.”

  “Then we had better get down to talking.” Sampling the liquid in the tall metal goblet before him, Ehomba found it to his taste. He sipped courteously.

  Simna labored under no such restraint. Slugging down the contents of his tankard, he called for more. The tavern maid who refilled his drinking container topped it off with a saucy smile, and did not object when he drew her close for a kiss.

  “Hoy, this is my kind of necromancy!” With drink in hand, the swordsman saluted their host approvingly.

  “But you must be hungry as well.” Turning, bin Grue clapped his hands. From an unseen kitchen in an unimaginable fragment of the plenum, a quartet of waiters appeared, marching deliberately toward the table carrying platters piled high with all manner of well-sauced and piquant foodstuffs. The last one was stacked high with long slabs of raw meat. This was set before an approving Ahlitah, who fell to devouring them with unrestrained feline gusto.

  “Eat!” their host admonished them as he chomped down enthusiastically on a leg of broasted unicorn.

  “I’ve got to hand it to you.” Simna’s words were muffled by the meat in his mouth. “I’ve seen travelers use magic to conjure up food. But a whole tavern, complete to back kitchen and bar and celebrating customers?” He waved an unidentifiable drumstick in his friend’s direction. “What I wouldn’t have given to have had that little box with us when we were crossing the desert!”

  “A remarkable piece of enchantment.” Ehomba made the confession even as he continued to put away copious quantities of food.

  They ate and drank for what seemed like hours, until even the redoubtable Simna ibn Sind could eat no more. As he slumped in his chair, his engorged belly gave him the appearance of a pregnant jackal. Proportionately distended, the great black feline lay on his side on the floor, sound asleep.

  Only Ehomba, to bin Grue’s unalloyed amazement, continued to eat, steadily and without obvious harm to his digestion.

  “Where do you put it?” the wide-eyed trader wondered. “Your stomach is only a little enlarged.”

  Around a mouthful of steamed vegetables, the herdsman replied contentedly. “Growing up in a dry, poor country, one learns never to turn down food when it is offered, and trains the body to accept quite a lot on those rare occasions when large quantities are present.”

  “Don’t believe a word of it—oohhhhh.” Moaning, Simna tried to encompass his immensely augmented gut with both hands, and failed. He became briefly alert when Ehomba removed a small vial from his pack. “There, you see! It’s only through the use of sorcery that he’s able to eat like this! Tell him, bruther. Tell him what alchemy of reduction is contained in that tiny container you’ve been secretly sipping from.”

  “I will.” So saying, Ehomba tilted the vial over the top of his overflowing plate. Small white particles fell from its perforated stopper. “Sea salt. Not only does it remind me of home, but I always like a bit of extra seasoning on my food.”

  Disappointed by this revelation that was not, Simna groaned and fell back in his chair. A hand came down to rest gently on his shoulder. Looking up, he saw the smiling face and other components of the sultry barmaid who had been attending to their liquid requirements.

  “Dance with a lonely lady, soldier?”

  “Dance?” Simna mumbled. “Dance—sure.” Struggling to his feet, he did his best to sweep her up in his arms as they staggered together out onto the small empty section of floor opposite the tootling musicians. It was difficult to tell who was holding up whom. As the trader had promised, the swordsman found to his wonder and delight that his hands did not go through her.

  And all the while, to the heavyset merchant’s protracted incredulity, Ehomba continued to eat. “I have never seen three men consume as much as you,” bin Grue marveled openly. “I am also mindful of something your friend said earlier. Are you truly a sorcerer?”

  “Not at all. A simple herder of cattle and sheep, from the far south. Nothing more. Tell me now, Haramos bin Grue—how are you going to help us reach this far-distant Hamacassar?”

  “It will be difficult for you, but not impossible. First you must . . . Etjole Ehomba, are you feeling unwell?”

  It was not so much that the herdsman was feeling unwell as he was unsteady. Though he did not feel in the least filled up, and still retained much of his extraordinary appetite, he found that his vision had begun to blur. The laughter of the preboxed tavern patrons seemed to reverberate in his ears instead of simply sounding, and the light from the mirrors behind the bar to grow hazy. Outlines became indistinct, and even the formidable bin Grue acquired a certain fuzziness around the edges of his blocky, smooth-domed skull. He was speaking, talking to the herdsman, but his words had suddenly become as indistinct as his face, on which individual features now seemed to float freely, nose switching places with mouth, lips reinforcing eyebrows.

  Ehomba’s gaze fell to his elegant, slim goblet. The liquor within was light in color and afire with small bubbles that tickled the palate. Perhaps it was the bubbles, a new experience for him. Active and intriguing, they could also serve to divert a man’s attention from the actual taste of the nectar. It struck him suddenly that there was something in the current flagon of wine that could not trace its ancestry to any honorable grape.

  Striving to look up, he found that he could not even lift his head. The trader had been nothing if not subtle. His blunt and forthright manner had fooled the herdsman into believing their host was not one to exercise patience in any matter. It was to his credit, then, that he had managed to disguise this component of his personality so successfully. Having plied them with ample food and fine drink of inestimable purity, he had similarly bided his time.

  Ehomba tried to mumble something, but his lips and tongue were working no better than his eyes. As darkness began to descend, shutting out the bright lights of the mirrors and the now mocking laughter of the reconstituted tavern patrons, he thought he saw bin Grue rise and beckon. Not to his guests, or to any of the discorporal crowd, but
to a number of large and ready men who were entering through the single, dusty doorway that opened onto the obscure close beyond.

  Then his vision blanked altogether, leaving only his digestion functioning actively, and his stomach the only organ still capable of making noise.

  III

  It was still light out when sensibility returned to him. Having been gifted with an impressive headache, he found himself sitting up on the dry, bare floor of the deserted warehouse. Of preboxed, unfolded tavern and jovial customers there was no sign. Nor was the owner of the remarkable cube anywhere to be seen. That was hardly an unexpected development, the herdsman mused dourly.

  Rising, he staggered slightly until he could confirm his balance. His belongings lay nearby, undisturbed by intruders real or imagined. No doubt one such as Haramos bin Grue regarded such poor possessions as unworthy of his attention, more bother than they would be worth in the marketplace. Or perhaps his avaricious nature had been wholly engaged with more promising matters.

  Ahlitah was gone. There was no sign of the big cat, not on the floor where he had been lying nor back among the few crates and corners. Standing in silence, alone in a shaft of sunlight, Ehomba concentrated hard on recovering fragments of memory like scavenged tatters of old rags.

  The men whom he recalled entering the warehouse just before he had blacked out had been carrying something between them. What was it? Shutting his eyes tightly, he fought to remember. Snakes? No—ropes. Ropes and chains. Not to rig a ship, he decided. Ehomba had never seen a cat like Ahlitah until he had rescued it from the angry spiraling wind. Half lion, half cheetah, his four-legged companion was unique. Haramos bin Grue was a self-confessed dealer in the unique.

  Realizing where the cat must be, the herdsman went in search of his one other traveling companion.