Into the Thinking Kingdoms Read Online Free PDF Page B

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.