Into the Thinking Kingdoms: Journeys of the Catechist, Book 2

by Alan Dean Foster

  “We could ask a local. Surely they would know.” Wiping his hands against his kilt, Ehomba started back toward the road.

  “Hoy, we could,” Simna agreed, “if we could get one to stand still long enough. They don’t run from the sight of us, but I’ve yet to see one that didn’t hurry to lock him- or herself away if it looked like we might be heading in their direction.” Making a face, he indicated their two outsized companions. “Get the cat and the shag beast to hide themselves in a field and you and I might be able to walk up to a farmhouse without the tenants shutting the door in our faces.”

  Back up on the road, they once more resumed their trek northward. The nearer they got to the river, the more residents of Hamacassar they encountered. These gave the eccentric quartet a wide and wary, if polite, berth.

  “There is no need to unsettle any of the locals.” Ehomba’s staff stirred up a little puff of dust each time it was planted firmly on the hard-packed surface. “I am sure we will learn the meaning of the monoliths in the course of making contacts throughout the city.” He strode along eagerly, setting a much more rapid pace than usual.

  “Hoy, long bruther, I’m glad you’re in a good mood, but remember that not all of us have your beanpole legs.”

  “Sorry.” Ehomba forced himself to slow down. “I did not realize I was walking so fast.”

  “Walking? You’ve been on the verge of breaking into a run ever since we came down out of the hills.” The swordsman jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “The brute’s legs are longer than yours and the cat has four to our two, but I’m not in either class stride-wise. Have a thought for me, Etjole, if no one else.”

  “It is just that we are so close, Simna.” Uncharacteristic excitement bubbled in the herdsman’s voice.

  “Close to what?” The swordsman’s tone was considerably less ebullient. “To maybe, if we’re lucky, finding passage on a ship to cross the Semordria, where we then first have to find this Ehl-Larimar?” He made a rude noise, conducting it with an equally rude gesture.

  “Considering how far we have traveled and what difficulties we have overcome, I would think that you could show a little optimism, Simna.”

  “I’m a realist, Etjole.” The swordsman kicked a rock out of his path and into the drainage ditch that ran parallel to the slightly elevated roadbed.

  “Realism and optimism are not always mutually exclusive, my friend.”

  “Hoy, that’s like saying a beautiful daughter and her suspicious father aren’t mutually exclusive.” He watched a wagon piled high with parsnips and carrots pass by, rumbling in the opposite direction. The team of matched toxondons that was pulling it ignored the immigrants, but the two men riding on the wagon’s seat never took their eyes off Ehomba and his companions.

  They did not pass any more of the monoliths. Apparently these existed only in the single line they had encountered on the outskirts of the city. But there were many other architectural wonders to dazzle the eyes of first-time visitors.

  Hamacassar boasted the tallest buildings Ehomba had ever seen. Rising eight and nine stories above the widest commercial streets, these had facades that were decorated with fine sculpture and stonework. Many wagons plied the intricate network of avenues and boulevards while flat-bottomed barges and other cargo craft filled the city canals to capacity. These were in turn spanned by hundreds of graceful yet wholly functional bridges that were themselves ornamented with bas-reliefs and metal grillwork. Though curious about the singular foursome, the locals were too busy to linger and stare. The closer they came to the waterfront, the more pervaded the atmosphere became with the bustle and fervor of commerce.

  “A prosperous kingdom.” Simna made the comment as they worked their way between carts and wagons piled high with ship’s supplies, commodities from all along the length of the great river, foodstuffs and crafts, and all manner of trade goods. “These people have grown rich on trade.” Slowing as they passed a small bistro, he inhaled deeply of the delicious aromas that wafted from its cool, inviting interior.

  Taking him by the arm, Ehomba drew him firmly away from the scene of temptation. The swordsman did not really resist.

  “We have no money for such diversions,” Ehomba reminded his friend, “unless your pack holds an overlooked piece of Chlengguu gold.”

  A downcast Simna looked regretful. “Alas, the only portion of that which remains golden is my memory.” By way of emphasis he shifted his pack higher on his back. “Another lunch of jerked meat and dried fruit, I fear.” Behind him, crowding close, Hunkapa Aub smiled ingenuously.

  “Hunkapa like jerky!”

  “You would,” the swordsman muttered under his breath. As the sun climbed higher in a simmering, hazy sky, the humidity rose accordingly. But not all was the fault of the climate—they were approaching the riverfront.

  Ships of all manner and description crowded the quays as lines of nearly naked, sweating stevedores proceeded with their unloading or provisioning. Shouts and curses mingled with the clanking of heavy tackle, the flap of unfurling canvas, the wet slap of lines against wooden piers and metal cleats. All manner of costume was visible in a blur of styles and hues, from intricately batiked turbans to simple loincloths to no-nonsense sailors’ attire sewn in solid colors and material too tough for anything equipped with less dentition than a shark to bite through. It was a choice selection of barely organized chaos and confusion made worse by the presence of frolicking children, gawking sightseers, and strolling gentlefolk.

  Ehomba was very hopeful.

  It proved all but impossible to convince any of the busy workers to pause long enough to answer even a few simple questions. Those who at first try appeared willing evaporated into the teeming crowd the instant they caught sight of the black litah, or Hunkapa Aub, or both. Afraid of the trouble his two nonhuman companions might up-stir in his absence, Ehomba was reluctant to accept Simna’s suggestion that he and the swordsman temporarily leave them behind.

  Exasperated by his tall friend’s caution, the swordsman explained that if they could not part company even for a little while, they would have to query the operators of each craft one by one. While Ehomba concurred, he pointed out that they could begin with the largest, most self-evidently seaworthy craft. It was not necessary to inquire of the master of a two-man rowboat, for example, if he would be willing to try to transport them across the vast, dangerous expanse of the Semordria.

  They began with the biggest ship in sight, one docked just to the left of where they were standing. Its first mate greeted them at the railing. After listening politely to their request, the wiry, dark-haired sailor shared a good laugh with those members of his crew who were near enough to participate.

  “Didja hear that, lads? The long-faced fellow in the skirt wants us to take ’im and ’is circus across the Semordria!” Leaning over the railing, the mate grinned down at them and stroked his neatly coifed beard. “Would you like to make a stopover on the moon, perhaps? ’Tis not far out of the way, and I am told the seas between here and there are more peaceful.”

  The muscles in Ehomba’s face tightened smartly, but he kept his tone respectful. “I take it that your answer is no?”

  A vague sensation that he was being mocked transformed the mate’s grin into a glower. “You can take it anyway you want, fellow, so long as you don’t bring it aboard my boat.” As he turned away he was smiling and laughing again. “Cross the Semordria! Landsmen and foreigners—no matter where a man sails he’s never free of ’em.”

  The response was more or less the same everywhere they tried. Most of the larger, better-equipped vessels plied their trade up and down the great watery swath of the Eynharrowk and its hundreds of navigable tributaries. A whole world of kingdoms and merchants, duchies and dukedoms and independent city-states was tied together by the Eynharrowk and its sibling rivers, Ehomba soon realized. They were the veins and arteries of an immensely extended, living, shifting body whose head lay not at the top, but in the middle. That head was Hamacassar.
If they could not secure transportation there, they were unlikely to happen upon it anywhere else.

  So they persisted, making their way along the riverfront walk, inquiring even of the owners of boats that seemed too small or too frail to brave the wave-swept reaches of the Semordria. Desperation drove them to thoroughness.

  There were craft present that from time to time risked the storms and high seas of the ocean, but without exception these clung close to shore whenever they ventured out upon the sea itself, hiding in protected coves and harbors as they plied ancient coastal trade routes. Their crews were brave and their captains resolute, for the profits to be made from ranging so far afield from the Eynharrowk were substantial.

  It was at the base of the boarding ramp of one such coastal trader, a smallish but sturdily built vessel, that a third mate supervising the loading of sacks of rice and millet provided their first ray of hope.

  “Ayesh, there are ships that cross the Semordria.” He spoke around the stem of a scrimshawed pipe that seemed to grow directly from his mouth, like the extended tooth of a narwhal. “More set sail westward than return. But now and again some master mariner reappears laden with wonderful goods and even better stories. Such captains are rare indeed. They never change ships because their owners keep them content. Their crews adore them and are spoiled for use on other vessels. Having sailed under the best, they refuse to haul a line for anyone not as skilled.”

  Ehomba listened intently, making sure to let the mate finish before asking any more questions. “Where might we find such a ship, with such a crew?”

  Squinting at the sky and focusing on a hovering cloud that might or might not contain a portion of the evening’s rain, the mate thought carefully before replying.

  “Among those of us who sail the Eynharrowk, the Warebeth has passed beyond reverence into legend. It is rumored that she has made twelve complete crossings of the Semordria without losing more than the expected number of seamen. I have never heard of her taking passengers, but then it is not the sort of trip most landsmen would consider. Certainly she’s large enough to accommodate guests.” As he related this information the mate kept nodding to himself, eyes half closed.

  “A three-master, solid of keel and sound of beam. If any ship would take landsmen on such an arduous voyage, ayesh, it would be the Warebeth.”

  “Excellent,” declared Ehomba. “Where do we find this craft?”

  Removing his pipe, a process that somewhat surprisingly did not require a minor surgical procedure, the mate tapped the bowl gently against the side of a nearby piling. “Sadly, friends, the Warebeth left yesterday morning for a two-month journey upriver to the Thalgostian villages. If you’re willing to wait for her return, you might have yourselves a ship.” He placed the stem of the pipe back between his yellow-brown teeth.

  “Two months.” Ehomba’s expression fell. “Are there no other choices?”

  Sea dragonets perched on a nearby piling sang to one another, punctuating their songs with intermittent puffs of smoke. “Ayesh, maybe one.” Turning, the mate pointed downriver, his finger tracing the line of the waterfront walk. “Try the out-end of quay thirty-six. If I’m not mistaken, the Grömsketter is still there. Captain Stanager Rose on deck, unless there’s been a change of command since last I heard of her. She’s done the Semordria transit more than once, though how many times I couldn’t tell you. Not the wave piercer the Warebeth is, but a sound ship nonetheless. Whether she’ll take wayfarers or not, much less landsmen, I don’t know. But if she’s still in port, she’s your only other hope.”

  Ehomba bowed his head and dipped the point of his spear in the mate’s direction. “Many thanks to you, sir. We can but try.”

  “Can but try indeed, bruther.” Simna stayed close to the herdsman as they left the pier and began once more to push their way through the dynamic, industrious crowds. Behind them, the broad beam of Hunkapa Aub kept potential pickpockets and busybodies away by sheer force of his hulking presence. Given a space of his own by the crowd, which despite its preoccupations nevertheless kept well clear of the big cat, the black litah amused itself by pausing every so often to inspect pilings and high water for potentially edible harbor dwellers.

  It turned out that in his eulogistic description of the Warebeth and its accomplishments, the neighborly and helpful mate had underrated the Grömsketter. To Ehomba’s inexperienced eye it looked like a fine ship, with broad, curving sides and a high helm deck. There was only a single mainmast, but a second smaller foremast looked able to carry a respectable spread of sail between its crest and the bowsprit. Heavy-weather shutters protected the ports, and Simna pointed out that her lines were triple instead of double braided. Even to his eyes, she was rigged for serious weather. Her energetic crew looked competent and healthy.

  As he contemplated the craft, the herdsman sought his companion’s opinion. “What do you think, Simna?”

  “I’m no mariner, Etjole.” The swordsman scrutinized the vessel from stem to stern. “Give me something with legs to ride, any day. But I’ve spent some time on boats, and from what little I know she looks seaworthy enough. Surely no sailor would set out to traverse the Semordria on a craft he wasn’t convinced would carry him across and back again.”

  Ehomba nodded once. Together they walked to the base of the boarding ramp. A few sailors were traveling in both directions along its length, but for the most part the majority of activity was taking place on board.

  Putting his free hand alongside his mouth, the herdsman hailed the deck. “Hello! We are travelers seeking to cross the ocean, and were told you might be of service in such a matter!”

  A tall, broad-chested seaman stopped coiling the rope he was working with to lean toward them. He was entirely bald except for a topknot of black hair that fell in a single thick braid down his back.

  “You want passage across the Semordria?” A tense Ehomba nodded in the affirmative, waiting for the expected laugh of derision.

  But the sailor neither laughed nor mocked him. “That’s quite a pair you have with you. Are they pets, or tamed for sale?”

  The black litah snarled up at the deck. “Come down here, man, and I’ll show you who’s a pet.”

  “Bismalath!” the man exclaimed. “A talking cat, and one of such a size and shape as I have never seen. And the other beast, it is also new to me.” He beckoned to the travelers. “I am Terious Kemarkh, first mate of the Grömsketter. Come aboard, and we will see about this request of yours.”

  As they started up the ramp, a subdued but still obviously eager Ehomba in the lead, he called across to the mate. “Then you are preparing for a crossing of the Semordria?”

  “Ayesh, but it’s not up to me to decide whether you can, or should, travel with us.” Completing the coil he had been working on when they had first arrived, he let it fall heavily to the deck. “That’s a decision for the Captain to make.”

  Once aboard, the travelers saw that everything they had suspected about the Grömsketter continued to hold true. She was solid and well maintained, with no rigging lying loose to trip an unwary sailor and her teak worn smooth and clean. Lines were neatly stowed and all hatches not in use firmly secured.

  The mate greeted them with hearty handshakes, electing to wave instead of accepting the affable Aub’s extended paw. “A seaman has constant need of the use of his fingers,” Terious explained in refusing the handshake. “Come with me.”

  He led them toward the stern and the raised cabin there. Bidding them wait, he vanished through an open hatchway like a mouse into its hole. Several moments passed, during which the travelers were able to observe the crew. For their part, the mariners were equally curious about their unfamiliar visitors. Several tried to feel of the litah’s fur, only to be warned off by intimidating coughs.

  Hoping that their host would return before the big cat’s patience wore thin and it decided to remove an arm or other available extremity from some member of the crew, Ehomba was relieved when Terious popped back out of th
e hatchway. His expression was encouraging.

  “Though in a surly mood, the Captain has agreed to hear you out. I explained as best I could that you were not from the valley of the Eynharrowk and had obviously traveled a great distance to try and effect this transit. I pointed out that with the Warebeth having already sailed, and upriver at that, the Grömsketter was your last best hope of crossing the ocean.” Stepping out on the deck, he waited alongside them.

  Both travelers studied the dark opening. “What sort of man is this Stanager Rose?” Simna asked anxiously.

  The first mate’s expression did not change. “Wait just a moment and you will see for yourself.”

  A muttered curse rose from below and a figure started to rise toward the light. An open-necked seaman’s blouse was pushed into bright red pants with yellow striping, the legs of which were in turn tucked into boots of durable black stingray leather. A tousled mop of shoulder-length red hair was held away from the face by a wide yellow bandanna. A sextant hung from one hand, and a long dagger was slung through a double loop at the waist. Its haft was impressively jeweled.

  Ehomba bowed once again. “We thank you for allowing us on board your ship, Captain, and for deigning to consider our request for transportation.”

  “Right. That’s all it is right now, traveler—a request. But I’ll give you a hearing.” Steel-blue eyes looked the herdsman up and down, speculating openly. “Terious was right: You are a spectacle all by yourself, tall man. Taken together with your companions, you’re unnatural enough to claim a marketplace stage and charge admission just to look at you.” A sea-weathered hand reached up and out to come down firmly on Ehomba’s shoulder.

  “Despite what you may have heard, it can get tiresome out in the middle of the ocean. Even on the Semordria. At such times, new entertainment is always welcome.”

  “We are not entertainers,” Ehomba explained simply.

  “Didn’t say that you were. But you’ll have stories to tell. I can see that just by looking at you.” A hand gestured expansively downward. “You two come with me and we’ll talk. I’m afraid that, garrulous or not, your woolly companions will have to remain on deck, as they’ll never fit through this hatchway.”