Into the Thinking Kingdoms

by Alan Dean Foster

  A hand slowly massaging one temple, Beckwith regarded the herdsman coldly. “Is that so? He looks like a common assassin to me, one who can do nothing without stealth and a knife to slip into some innocent’s back. But I am willing to be convinced.” Eyes blazing, he leaned forward on the throne. “Your friend says you are a powerful magician, southerner. Prove his words. Free yourself.” Against the walls, a number of the vigilant soldiers shifted uneasily.

  “I am no assassin,” Ehomba replied. “Hymneth the Possessed is the murderer of your son.”

  “A wizard.” With a blunt, humorless laugh, Beckwith sat back on his throne.

  Simna stopped struggling against his bonds long enough to lean to his left and whisper to his companion. “Come on, Etjole. This be no time for reticence. Show them what you can do. Reveal your powers to them!”

  The herdsman nodded in the direction of their collected kit. “What small powers I may access lie in the bottom of my pack, Simna, which I cannot reach. I am sorry. Truly I am.”

  “Well then, remonstrate with this fool! He’s so blinded by the loss of his son that he can’t think straight. That’s when slime like bin Grue can do their work.”

  “I will try.” Redirecting his words to the dais, he spoke clearly and with the confidence of one who speaks the truth. “Think a moment before condemning us, noble Beckwith. If I were truly your son’s killer, why would I come all this way and present myself to your court? What possible reason could I have for undertaking such a long and dangerous journey?”

  Beckwith replied without hesitation. “To claim the treasure, of course.” He glanced to his right. “Now it will go, as it rightfully should, to my new friend here.”

  For the first time, Haramos bin Grue smiled. And why not? Not only was he going to reclaim the black litah and acquire an additional attraction in the form of the disconsolate Hunkapa Aub, there was apparently a good deal more at stake.

  “I knew it!” Simna burst out. He glared murderously at his tall friend. “There was treasure all along! You’ve been lying to me—but I never believed you, you sanctimonious southern scion of a promiscuous porker!”

  Honestly baffled, Ehomba gaped at his friend. “Simna, I do not know what you are talking about.” He nodded as best he was able in Beckwith’s direction. “I do not know what he is talking about.”

  “But I do know—now! At last I understand. Oh, you were so subtle, you were, so adept at parrying my questions about ‘treasure.’” Turning sharply away from the herdsman, Simna ibn Sind gazed expectantly at the throne. “There’s a reward, isn’t there? For information about your son. That’s the treasure!”

  A wary Bewaryn Beckwith nodded slowly. “There has been for months. Knowledge of it was spread far and wide in hopes of securing some information as to Tarin’s whereabouts. This good merchant earns it by dint of the invaluable information he has brought me. I am only thankful that he arrived in time to tell me the truth of how things really are, and to inform me of your nefarious intentions.” His attention shifted back to Ehomba. “It is clear you not only murdered my son, but intended to claim the reward for bringing us the news of his death. Simple man that I am, I cannot conceive of such incredible arrogance.”

  “Hoy, I can, noble sir!” Not only was an obviously outraged Simna not finished, he appeared to be just warming up. “For weeks I have been attending to this mumbling, stone-faced charlatan, seeing to his needs, waiting upon his desires, helping to protect him from all manner of difficulties and dangers. I did this of my own free will because in my heart I knew he was after treasure. I could smell it in his words, sense it in the way he stared at the far horizons. And, humbly avaricious fellow that I am, I wanted a piece of that treasure for myself. That was all I was interested in: I admit it. Condemn me for my confession if you will, but give me credit at least for my honesty. I am ashamed to admit that it never bothered me that he killed the man who inspired him to come all this way. Your son, noble sir.”

  Ehomba’s jaw dropped in utter disbelief. “Simna!”

  The swordsman sneered at him, “‘Simna’? What is this use of my name to express outrage? Am I now reduced to nothing more than a surprised expletive? ‘Simna’ yourself, you fakir, you champion of lies, you user of honest men. You fooled everyone, even the cat, but you can’t fool me any longer!” Straining against the ropes that enveloped him, he struggled to bow in the direction of the throne. It required considerable flexibility and effort.

  “Sire, Count Beckwith, I abjure this deceptive and conniving villain now and for all time! I was wrong to think the treasure that I knew he sought could be come by honestly, but you must see, you have to see, that I could not have suspected otherwise. He is a master of deviousness, which he cleverly masks with a studied attitude of simple affability. Free me, give me back my life, and I will tell you everything! I see now that there never was any treasure in this for me, fool that I was.”

  Beckwith stared hard at the bound swordsman, the fingers of one hand tap-tapping against the arm of the throne. “Why should I let you go? You have nothing to give me.” He nodded in the merchant’s direction. “This good gentleman has already told me everything.”

  “Impossible, sire! He can only have told you what his ancient employee told him. Only I have traveled in this prevaricator’s misbegotten company since near the very start of his journey. Only I have been privy to all of his plans and intentions.” He lowered his head and his voice. “Besides the murderer himself, only I know the most intimate details of your son’s death.”

  To his credit, bin Grue’s expression never changed. “He’s lying,” the merchant avowed brusquely.

  “Lying?” Bewaryn Beckwith eyed the foreign trader thoughtfully. “Lying about what? Are you saying that perhaps this stranger was not responsible for the death of my son?”

  “No, sire, of course not. We both know better than that.” Ehomba thought bin Grue might have been starting to sweat a little, but he could not be sure. Like the rest of Laconda, it was hot and humid in the reception chamber.

  “Then what could he be lying about?” the Count pressed him. “Not his own participation in my son’s murder. You told me yourself it was carried out by the tall southerner alone.”

  “That’s true, sire, but—I know a little of this talkative person, and I know that he is not to be trusted.”

  “I have no intention of trusting him, but if he knows more of my son’s death than you, he deserves at least to be heard.” Leaning forward, he glared down at the semisupine swordsman. “Speak then, vagrant, and if what you say satisfies me, I may decide to spare your inconsequential life.”

  Simna shifted awkwardly on the floor. “Your indulgence, sire, but the pain in my arms and legs from these ropes is severe, and distracts my thoughts.”

  Beckwith sat back in his seat and waved indifferently. “Oh very well—cut him loose.”

  “Sire,” bin Grue protested as two burly soldiers stepped forward to release the swordsman from his bonds, “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “What, are you afraid of him, Haramos? I thought it was the assassin who claimed to be a sorcerer.”

  “No, sire, I’m not afraid of him.” The merchant was watching the relieved Simna intently. “I just don’t trust him. I don’t trust any of them.”

  “You don’t have to trust them, my friend. The hairy brute and the giant cat are well and truly shackled, and these troops you see here are my household guard, the pride of Laconda North.” He indicated Simna who, freed from the heavy ropes, was gratefully rubbing circulation back into his wrists and legs. “He is but one man, and not a very big one at that. Calm yourself. Why, despite the differences in our ages I think I could take him in a fair fight myself.”

  “I suspect that you could, sire.” The liberated swordsman was eager to please.

  “Flattery is for wiping asses, vagrant, and mine is clean. Now—my son’s passing? How did happen? Spare no detail, no matter how repellent.”

  After a gl
ance at the two brawny guards who flanked him on either side, Simna began. It was an elaborate tale, rich with intrigue and deception. Even the pair of sentinels were drawn into the story, though they never let down their guard. Only bin Grue, who knew the real truth, was not taken in. Unable to object more strenuously without bringing suspicion on himself, he could only watch and wonder at the swordsman’s exhibition. From the standpoint of pure theater, the tough-minded merchant had to admit, it was quite a performance.

  As for Ehomba, he could only sit in silence and wonder at the swordsman’s motivations. While he could understand the opportunistic Simna’s desire to employ every means at his disposal to try to save himself, the herdsman would have preferred it did not involve digging a deeper grave for the sole local representative of the Naumkib, who were not present to speak in their own defense.

  Simna wove more and more detail into his story, one moment gazing imploringly heavenward, the next pointing a trembling arm in Ehomba’s direction. Walking up behind the herdsman, he began beating him about the head and shoulders as he spoke, belaboring the bound southerner with insults and accusations as well as solid, unrelenting blows. Beckwith watched expressionlessly while bin Grue gnawed nervously at his cigar and wondered what the swordsman was going to do for a big finish.

  It came soon enough. As he returned to stand between the two heavyset guards, Simna’s voice rose to a shout, a climax of indignation and outrage. “Look at him, sitting there! Do you see any remorse written on his face? Do you see any hint, any suggestion of apologia for what he’s done? No! That’s how he always is. Stone-faced, devoid of expression, unchanging whether picking a man’s mind or taking his life. He deserves to die! I would kill him myself for what he’s done to me, but I am unarmed.” Reaching back, he gave the slightly nearer of the two guards a strong shove in the herdsman’s direction.

  “Go on, get it done, execute him now! I want to see his blood run! I deserve to see it!” When the guard hesitated, Simna pushed the other one forward, shoving insistently. “Show me his head rolling on the floor.”

  “Simna ibn Sind, you are a faithless and unprincipled man!” Belying the swordsman’s accusations, Ehomba’s face contorted in a rictus of anger and betrayal. “You will die a lonely and miserable death that fully reflects your worthless life!”

  “Probably,” the swordsman retorted, “but not just yet.” Whereupon he bolted, quick as a cobra, in the opposite direction. Both guards turned and grabbed for him, but having been shoved several steps forward, the wily Simna had put them just out of reach.

  Half-somnolent troops instantly scrambled to block the nearest exits. Others rushed to protect the Count. Startled by all the sudden activity, decorative drifting fish darted confusedly to and fro. Another dozen soldiers rushed the agile swordsman. They lowered or drew their own weapons as the frantic Simna scrabbled madly at his and Ehomba’s pile of personal belongings. His fingers wrapping around a sword hilt, he pulled it free and threw it not at the grim-faced, oncoming soldiers, but toward his companion.

  “Hoy, bruther! Bring down a piece of the sky on this ungrateful place! Conjure forth the wind that rushes between the stars and blow these knaves through their precious walls! Litter the floor with their skeletons as the star wind tears the flesh from their bones!”

  Slipping free of the ropes that had restrained him, which Simna’s supple fingers had astutely undone in between beating the herdsman madly about the head and body, Ehomba rose in time to catch the tumbling sword by its haft. There was only one problem with the swordsman’s bold and bloodthirsty admonitions.

  It was the wrong sword.

  Instead of the sharp blade fashioned of gray sky metal, in his haste and confusion Simna had snatched up the herdsman’s other sword, the one made of bone lined with serrated, triangular sharks’ teeth. A fearsome and efficacious weapon to be sure, but not one that could by any stretch of anyone’s imagination bring down so much as an errant rain cloud. It was a thing of the sea, not of the sky.

  Having taken up his own sword subsequent to flinging the weapon to Ehomba, the rueful swordsman realized his mistake. “Hoy, I’m sorry, bruther.” Sword held in both hands, he was backing away from the advancing semicircle of soldiers. A sword was not of much use against pikes, but he was determined to sell his life as dearly as possible. If naught else, at least he would go down with a weapon in his hand and no shackles on his wrists and ankles. They would die like men and not like mad dogs.

  “Nothing to be sorry for, friend Simna.” Ehomba held the tooth-lined sword high overhead, its sharpened tip pointed at the tense but unconcerned soldiers. “There are fish everywhere in this place, so what better weapon to fight with than one that owes its edge to the sea?”

  “Kill them!” It was the curt voice of Haramos bin Grue, declaiming from behind a line of blue-coated troops. “Kill them now, before he . . . !”

  Hidden on his throne, Bewaryn Beckwith could be heard responding querulously, and for the first time, with a hint of suspicion in his voice. “Before he—what, Haramos?”

  It was a question Simna ibn Sind was asking silently. Nearby, Ahlitah was awake and roaring, adding to the sense of incipient chaos. Emerging from his gloom, Hunkapa Aub had straightened and was shaking the metal mesh of his netting with terrifying violence.

  A blue aurora had enveloped the blade of the sea-bone sword. It was dark as the deep ocean, tinged with green, and smelled of salt. At the sight of it the advancing soldiers halted momentarily. From the dais, their liege’s voice urged them on.

  “What are you waiting for?” Bewaryn Beckwith bellowed. “They are only two and you are many. Take them! Alive if possible—otherwise if not.”

  One of the two thickly muscled guards who had been duped by Simna stepped forward, holding his heavy sword threateningly out in front of him. His voice was that of reason, not anger.

  “This is senseless. Why disgrace yourselves by spilling blood inside the palace? You should meet your fate with dignity.” Holding his blade at the ready, he extended his other hand. “Give up your weapons.”

  “Look!” one of the men behind him shouted. An uncomfortable susurration rippled through the contracting circle of soldiers.

  Something was emerging from the point of the herdsman’s sword. Gray on top, white on the bottom, it swelled massively as it expanded away from the bone. It looked like a giant bicolored drop of milk oozing out of nothingness parallel to the floor. As it continued to increase in size it began to grow individual features, like a closed flower sprouting petals. And it just kept getting bigger and bigger.

  The ornamental floating fish in the reception hall identified it before any of the soldiers. They vanished through open doors as if propelled by lightning and not fins, evaporating streaks of yellow and orange, red and gold. In one case they literally flew through a squad of blue-clad reinforcements hurrying to the chamber. It was as if they had not fled, but vaporized.

  The gray-white mass grew fins of its own, and a great, sickle-like tail. A pair of black eyes manifested themselves. They were jet black and without visible pupils. All of these details were ignored by those in the room as they focused on a single predominant feature: the mouth.

  It was enormous, capable of swallowing a person in a single swallow. Multiple rows of gleaming white, triangular teeth lined the interior of that imposing cavity. Their edges were serrated on both sides of the sharp point, like steak knives. The largest was more than three inches long. It was a peerless mouth, unlike anything else in all the undersea kingdom. When viewed from straight on, jaws and teeth combined to form a uniquely terrifying smile.

  The great white shark broke free of the tip of the bone sword and drifted toward the assembled soldiers. Several broke and ran, but the rest bravely held their ground, their long pikes extended. A second gray-white teardrop shape was beginning to emerge from the weapon. If anything, it promised to be larger than its predecessor.

  One of the soldiers thrust his pike at the looming predator. Ext
ending its jaws beyond its lips, the great white ate it. Left holding a length of useless wood, the soldier sensibly threw it away, turned, and sprinted for the nearest door.

  “Hold your ground!” Bewaryn Beckwith commanded from the vicinity of his throne. “Fight back! They are only fish, like the ones you see every day on the streets of the city.”

  The Count of Laconda North was half right. They were only fish, but they were most assuredly not like the ones the soldiers saw every day. They were not decorative, they were not inoffensive, and they were hungry. And now there were three of them, with a fourth on the way as the fecund sword gave birth yet again.

  To their credit, the soldiers responded to the appeal of their liege. They tried to encircle two of the sharks and attack with their long pikes. Several thrusts struck home, and droplets of red shark blood spilled in slow motion to the floor. But the wounds only enraged the sharks. With their great curved tails propelling them explosively through the air, they snapped at whatever happened to come within reach, be it pike, soldier, or unfortunate furniture.

  One great white the soldiers probably could have contained. Two and then three forced them into a holding action. When the sixth emerged full grown from Ehomba’s sword, the reception hall dissolved into general blood and chaos.

  Soldiers broke and fled, pursued by unrelenting carnivorous torpedoes. The fortunate escaped down corridors of panic while their slower, less agile comrades were actively dismembered. It was not long before limbs littered the floor and the fine furnishings and papered walls were splashed with crimson. Convoyed by a close-packed detachment of desperate soldiers, Bewaryn Beckwith, Count of Laconda North, escaped through a secret bolt-hole located behind the throne dais. Many members of his escort were not as lucky.

  As for Haramos bin Grue, he attempted to flee along with the Count, only to find himself shoved roughly back into the bloody pandemonium that had enveloped the hall. As his guard kept them separated, Beckwith had just enough time to shout a passing farewell before ducking to safety.