Simna was anticipating a fairly typical isolated mountain village, with pigs and heptodons, chickens and raphusids running loose on rutted, muddy streets, children wailing, laundry hanging from unshuttered windows, and the pervasive stink of waste both human and animal. Given such low expectations, it was not surprising that when it finally came into view through the surrounding trees, the reality of Netherbrae gave a boost to his spirits as well as to his tired legs.
They were all relieved. The previous day had seen them climbing steadily up a trail become increasingly steep. Though it was not mentioned, each of them found the possibility of a night’s sleep in a real bed quietly exhilarating.
“What an appealing little place.” His fingers locked in the straps of his backpack, Simna ibn Sind’s step had become positively jaunty as he gave Knucker a friendly nudge. “I admit I was a bit worried about what we might find, but if anything you understated its charm.” He lowered his voice slightly. “I wonder if the local ladies are as attractive as their surroundings?”
As the travelers entered the unfenced, unguarded hamlet, people looked up from their work to smile and wave. Used to encountering the occasional traveler in their mountain hideaway, they were not wary of the three men and their imposing feline companion. Their unforced greetings were, if anything, effusive.
As Knucker led them deeper into the thoughtfully laid-out community, Ehomba admired the wonderful homes and shops. None rose higher than a single story, though many boasted sharply raked roofs that accommodated spacious lofts. Every exposed beam and post, board and railing had been carved with care and attention. Crossbeams terminated in the beaked heads of forest birds. More animals than the herdsman could count leaped and browsed and slumbered and inclined graceful wooden necks to sip from pools of richly grained carved water.
There were wooden flowers in profusion, gaily painted to approximate their natural tints. The shutters that flanked open, glass-free windows were inscribed with mountain scenes, and the fences that enclosed neat yards and gardens were comprised of pickets of every imaginable style and size. Small stone wells were topped with sheltering roofs of all possible shapes, from round to octagonal.
Each shop or storefront was engraved with scenes that depicted the profession they housed. The entrance to the village cobbler’s was lined with oversized wooden shoes in several styles and varieties. A smithy boasted the unique distinction of displaying assorted iron and other metal objects carved in wood. Wooden rolls and muffins, pies and cookies outside the bakery looked fresh enough to eat. Not merely the flowers, but a great many of the other sculptures had been painted with as much skill as they had been carved.
The undersized streets that separated the storybook buildings were hard-packed earth, but the travelers kicked up no dust as they walked. The reason for this became apparent when they encountered a cluster of women bending to pick up any forest debris while pushing heavy horsehair brushes along in front of them.
“I admire their cleanliness.” Simna smiled and bowed gallantly as they passed the street sweepers. Several of the women smiled and curtsied in return. “But sweeping the dirt’s a bit much.”
“I recall another town we passed through that was obsessed with cleanliness.” Ehomba’s expression was unflappable as ever, but he was keeping a careful watch on the buildings they passed. “Do you remember? We had problems there.”
“Hoy, but this is only a little village. I wouldn’t expect to find the same kind of trouble here.”
The herdsman was unable to relax. “I do not like things that are too perfect.”
“Fine.” Bending over, Simna spat on the herdsman’s foot. “There. Something that’s not perfect. Feel better now?”
Glancing down, the tall southerner ignored the trickle of saliva. “I have been drooled on by many animals. Spittle does not make something imperfect.”
The swordsman shook his head sadly. “I hope your wife and kids are more spirited than you, Etjole, or it’s a dull, dead family life you lead for certain.”
Ehomba turned to his friend. “I am told by others that Mirhanja is among the liveliest and most engaging of women. Certainly she seems so to me.”
“Or maybe it’s just in comparison to you, bruther. In your company, a rock would appear the essence of merrymaking.”
“You are not the first to assert that if I have any faults, a sometimes overriding seriousness might be among them.”
“Might be?” The herdsman chortled in disbelief. “Hoy, long bruther, and the moon might be far away, the oceans deep, and women fickle. Yes, you might tend to the sedate just a trifle. But that’s all right—we don’t hold it against you.” He looked around at the others. “Do we, friends?”
“Not I,” professed Knucker quickly.
“I find you all infantile and silly in the extreme.” Ahlitah avowed this with utter seriousness. “Among humans, the most thoughtful strive long and hard to attain the exalted level of perfect twit.”
“That’s profound,” Simna retorted, “coming from one who proclaims the location of his home by pissing all around it.”
“Look, there’s the inn!” Knucker made the announcement hastily and a bit too loudly. Swordsman and litah glared at one another for a long moment, whereupon the disputation was set aside by mutual unspoken consent, as had been dozens of similar arguments.
Splendid as had been the decorations they had beheld throughout the town, those fronting the inn put all their carved predecessors to shame. It was still only a single-story structure, but the upper loft or attic was proportionately larger in scale, allowing for a number of rooms to be located above the main floor. Not only forest creatures but inanimate inventions of the wood-carvers’ fancy stared out from the wide, handsomely milled entrance. There were oaken arabesques and pine flutings, rain clouds of spruce overhanging redwood mountains, and much, much more.
Following Knucker up the steps, they found themselves in an anteroom empty but for a plump, rosy-cheeked woman in her midthirties. She was using a fine-whisked broom to tidy the highly polished hardwood floor. Strain though he might, Ehomba could not see that there was anything to sweep. To his eyes the floor appeared immaculate.
“Welcome, visitors!” She smiled expansively. “Welcome to Netherbrae. I hope that you will fine our rooms comfortable, our linens sweet-smelling, and our food and drink to your liking.”
“I’m sure we will,” Simna assured her. “I take it you can accommodate four of us?”
“Oh yes, certainly!” Leaning her broom against a wall that was no less spotless than the floor, she clasped her hands together and nodded hospitably. “It is a slow time of year for us and we are glad to have your trade. You should know that there will be a townsparty here tonight. Naturally, as guests, you are invited.”
“A party!” The swordsman nodded approvingly. “I don’t remember the last time I was at a party.” He grinned teasingly at Ehomba. “It certainly wasn’t in your company.” Turning back to their congenial and proper hostess, he added, “We’d be delighted to attend.”
Her smile flickered, but only for an instant. “I must have misunderstood. You said that there were four of you? But I see only three.”
Turning slightly, Ehomba nodded in the direction of the litah. Having entered late, the big cat had settled down onto its belly, its front legs stretched out in front of it. “Three men, and one feline.”
Their hostess’s smile did not waver, but a new and unexpectedly biting sternness crept into her voice. “Surely you don’t expect that great black thing to join you in your room?”
“Ahlitah is one with us,” Ehomba explained. “Why can he not stay? He is intelligent, and can speak as well as any man.”
“That is not so.” The black cat spoke without lifting his head. “I can speak better.”
It required a visible effort, but their hostess managed to maintain her smile. “It is a filthy animal!”
All of a sudden the paint that highlighted the skillful wood carvings outside seemed to dim slightly, the perfectly trimmed rows of flowers to reveal one or two weeds. Seeing the herdsman’s jawline tighten uncharacteristically, Simna stepped quickly forward.
“Of course it is, m’dear, and we quite understand. My tall friend here”—he jerked a thumb in Ehomba’s direction—“comes from a land far to the south, where shepherds often stay out in the fields with their herds and flocks for days on end. So he’s used to being with animals and finds it only natural to sleep in their company. Furthermore, he’s unfamiliar with towns. Might I ask, lady, if there is anyplace where our cat could find shelter?”
Much mollified, the proprietress nodded to her right. “There are stables around back. At the moment they’re unoccupied, so that monstrous great creature won’t have any mounts to disturb. There’s water out there, and plenty of straw, and it will keep some of the chill away. It gets cold up here in the Hrugars.”
“I’m sure that’ll be okay.” Grinning tensely, the swordsman turned to look at the nonchalant Ahlitah. “Won’t it?”
The big cat’s face twitched slightly. It might have been a shrug. “I’d as soon not smell humans.”
“And I will stay with him.” Ehomba was no longer smiling at their hostess. “I know you have your policies. Please do not concern yourself on my account. I prefer a hard bed to a soft one in any case, as my companions can tell you.”
“Fine, good!” Muttering softly, Simna turned away from him. “I suppose you expect me to show solidarity by joining you in sharing the delights of the barn?”
“Not at all,” Ehomba told him. “You should enjoy your comforts where you can find them.”
“That’s good to hear, because that’s exactly what I’m going to do.” The swordsman was insistent. “After that climb out of Bondressey I want to soak in a hot tub, and lie between clean sheets, and awaken warm and rested.”
“As well you should.” Ehomba looked past him and inquired politely, “Around the back of the inn, you said?” Arms folded, the hostess nodded sternly.
“Sleep well,” Simna told him sarcastically. “Knucker and me here—we’re sure going to. Aren’t we, friend?”
“I hope so,” the little man ventured uncertainly.
“Right! Come on, then.” Putting an arm around the hesitant Knucker, the swordsman started past the proprietress and up the hall. “If you would show us to our room, m’dear?”
“Gladly.” Favoring Ehomba with a last disapproving look, she turned and took the lead from the two smaller men.
“Out, back, and around.” Pivoting, Ehomba led the way back out through the entrance. The litah rose and followed.
“You don’t have to do this, you know,” the big cat told him as they trooped down the front steps and turned to their right.
“I know that.”
“I’m not asking you to keep me company. I enjoy my solitude.”
“I know that also. I meant what I said about town beds being too soft. Straw will be better for me.”
“Suit yourself. It makes no difference to me.” Ahlitah was silent until they reached the stable. It was as sturdy and well made as every other building they had encountered in the village—even if it was intended only for the housing of filthy animals. “What about this ‘townsparty’ tonight?”
“The woman’s sharp reaction to you may have been an anomaly, but I think it would be better to take no chances. If these people will not allow filthy animals to stay in their inn, I have a strong feeling that they will not embrace them at their social gatherings.”
Entering the stables, the litah began to hunt for a suitable resting place to spend the night. “You are probably right, Etjole Ehomba. I wonder how they feel about entertaining filthy humans?”
“From the woman’s tone of voice I think she was referring only to matters of personal hygiene when she used the word ‘filthy.’ My fear is that bounded emotions may run deeper and nastier than that.”
Poking his head into an empty stall, Ahlitah grunted. “Wouldn’t surprise me. I’ll stay here and catch up on some sleep.” He snorted and shook his head, the great black mane swishing back and forth like a gigantic dust mop. “I have been behind on my sleep ever since we left the veldt.” Satisfied, he looked up curiously. “Are you going?”
“I have to. Not because I particularly want to, although in spite of their prejudice this is an interesting place, but because I feel it necessary to keep an eye on Simna. When he is not careful of what he says, his mouth can get him into trouble.”
“He and I almost have something in common, then. I like to put trouble in my mouth.” He emitted a silky growl. “Here’s a good place.”
Together, they flopped down on the thick pile of hay. It was a recent threshing, still soft and pliable, with a good view of both the front and back entrances to the stables. There Ehomba would rest until suppertime. After that would come the townsparty, which he, as traveler and guest, would attend. So long as he was there to keep Simna’s mouth full of food, he knew, the swordsman was unlikely to cause problems.
Taken in the inn’s tavern, the evening meal was excellent, as artistically and competently prepared and presented as the building in which it was served. Nor were the three travelers the only ones eating there. Locals began to trickle in with the setting of the sun, finding their way through Netherbrae’s immaculate streets with the aid of small, elegantly repoussed tin lanterns. Soon the tavern was alive with laughter and earnest conversation. Men discussed the opening of a new patch of forest to logging, for the village supplied many wood products to Bondressey and Squoy. Women talked children and household tasks, and both genders indulged in much good-natured gossiping.
As the three travelers sat at one of the long communal benches, they spoke mostly among themselves. But as the evening wore on and the tavern became more crowded, the jocularity more general, and the banter more boisterous, they inevitably found themselves drawn into conversation with the locals. Certainly Simna was. Knucker was a hesitant talker, and Ehomba could be downright noncommunicative.
Leaning out of his chair, the swordsman inquired casually of one burly native seated nearby, “So you cut a lot of trees, do you?”
“Why not?” The man’s hands were thick and callused from a lifetime of heavy physical labor. “We have lots of trees, and the Bondresseyeans pay well for our timber. Besides, a two-man cross-cut saw makes awfully quick work of carrots, so we might as well use them to cut trees.” His companions roared and Simna deigned to smile graciously at the spirited outpouring of bucolic humor.
“Any lady loggers among you?” He grinned hopefully. The laughter around him died instantly. Grave expressions took the place of the easy affability that had prevailed. “That would be an abomination. No Netherbraen, man or woman, would stand for it.”
“Hoy,” murmured Simna contritely, “it was just a question. Remember, my friends and I are strangers here.”
“That’s true ... yes, that’s so ...” Gradually the group regained its smiles and humor. “A lady logger—talk like that could get a man condemned.”
“Condemned?” Ehomba joined the dialogue. “Condemned by whom?”
“Why, by Tragg, of course.” The locals looked at one another and shook their heads in mutual commiseration at the visitors’ ignorance. “Tragg is the God of wandering forest paths. Whoever follows His way and His teachings will live a long and happy life here in the Hrugar Mountains. So it has always been for the citizens of Netherbrae.”
“This is what your priests tell you?” Subsequent to his initial faux pas, Simna tried to couch his comments in the least offensive manner possible.
“Priests?” The men exchanged a glance and, to the swordsman’s relief, burst out laughing once again. “We have no priests!”
“We know the truth of what Tragg tells us,” avowed another, “because it has always been the truth. We don’t need priests to tell us these things. We are as much a part of the Thinking Kingdoms as Melespra or Urenon the Elegant.”
“Yes. The only difference is that we choose to live in simpler surroundings.” The villager nearest Simna gestured expansively. “No need here for estates or castles. Our homes we decorate with humble wood, enhanced and beautified by our own hands. All of this Tragg tells us.”
“Does he also tell you that animals are filthy creatures?” Ehomba asked the question before Simna could catch the gist of it and stop him.
The swordsman was needlessly concerned. Another of the villagers answered freely and without hesitation. “Of course! Whenever we are unsure about anything, we put our faith in the teachings of Tragg and they tell us what to do.”
“And these teachings,” Ehomba inquired, “they are never wrong?”
“Never,” declared several of the men and two of the women in concert.
“But I thought you said that Netherbrae was as one with the Thinking Kingdoms. If you rely on the teachings of Tragg to tell you what to do, then that means you are not thinking about what to do. You are substituting belief for thought.”
Leaning close to his friend, Simna whispered urgently, “I’ve been around a lot, bruther, and based on my experience and travels, I’m telling you it’d be best to drop this line of conversation right now.”
“Why?” Ehomba countered innocently. “These are thinking people, inhabitants of one of the Thinking Kingdoms. People who think are not bothered by questions.” Raising his voice, he inquired loudly, “Are you?”
“Not at all, friend, not at all!” declared the villager seated across the table from the herdsman. “Belief does not replace thought. It complements it.” Grinning broadly, he added, “We think about what we believe in.”
“And we believe what we think.” Having had a good deal to drink, the woman who concluded the tenet broke out giggling. Her friend quickly joined in, and once again merriment was general around the table.
Ehomba started to say something else, but this time Simna was in his face before the words had time to emerge. “Hoy, bruther, if you’ve no concern for your own well-being, then have a care for mine, would you? No more of this. A change of subject to something innocuous is in order.”
“I—oh, very well.” Observing the strain in the swordsman’s expression, Ehomba decided to forgo the questions that were piling up inside him—for now. He replaced his intended words with the contents of the ceramic tumbler that had been set out before him.
Someone was speaking from atop a chair near the rear entrance. Ehomba recognized him as the general manager of the inn. Not the owner—that was a title reserved for the husband of the woman they had first met. The speaker had a prominent belly and cleverly coifed mustache that wrapped around much of his jowly face. A logger he was not.
“Friends, visitors! You’ve seen it before, watched it and wondered, and now tonight, we once more bring it before you to embellish your enjoyment of the evening and the solidarity of our precious community.” Pivoting carefully on the slightly shaky chair, he gestured grandly toward the back door. It was particularly wide and tall, with an interesting arched lintel. A sense of anticipation blanketed the crowd. By mutual silent agreement all conversation was muted.
“I give you,” the general manager proclaimed, “the nightmare!”
Cheers and whoops of expectation rose from the crowd, an atavistic howl that rattled the walls of the tavern. By dint of their early arrival and fortuitous seating, Ehomba and his companions had an unobstructed view of the arched doorway. Now they looked on in silence as the doors were flung wide.
Though the cage rolled easily on four thick wheels, it still took the combined exertions of four strong men to pull and push it into the tavern. The spokes of the wheels, the hubs, and the cage itself were decorated with etchings of mystic signs and mysterious figures. Even the bars and the massive padlock were made of wood, lovingly polished to reveal a fine, dark grain. Despite the height of the arched double doorway, the top of the cage barely cleared the twenty-foot-high opening.
Standing inside the cage and gripping two of the bars was a ten-foot-tall something.
It was as massive as it was tall, and Ehomba estimated its weight as equal to that of any three large men. It was hard to tell for sure because the creature was covered entirely in long, thick strands of dark gray hair streaked with black. The skull was more human than simian, and the black eyes that glared out from beneath massive, bony brows were full of rage. The nose was not as flat as an ape’s, but not as forwardly pronounced as a human’s. Through the waving, gesticulating arms of the crowd the herdsman thought he could make out five fingers on each hand and as many toes on each foot.
Not an ape, then, but not a member of the family of man, either. Something in between, or an offshoot unknown to the people of Naumkib. The more it roared and rattled the tree-sized wooden bars of its rolling cage, the more the crowd jeered and hooted.
Yelling an unimaginative and slightly obscene insult, someone in the throng stood up and threw the remnants of a warm meat pie at the cage. Passing through the bars, it struck the nightmare just above its right eye. Wincing, it turned to roar at its assailant. The laughter this induced caused food to come flying from all directions: pies, half-finished legs of meat, vegetables, gnawed rolls greasy with butter. At first the creature withstood the barrage and continued to bellow defiance at its captors. But gradually its roars and howls died down. Assaulted by food and taunts from every direction, it eventually retreated to the middle of its cage. There it sat, hunched over and no longer trying to deflect the edible missiles, doing its best to ignore the onslaught.
“Make it get up and bellow again!” someone yelled laughingly.
“Somebody get a long stick and poke it!” suggested another.
Ultimately the mob grew bored. Evidently this was not the first time they had amused themselves at the pitiful creature’s expense. Ignoring the cage and its lone occupant in their midst, they returned to their banqueting, trading jokes and gossip and casual conversation as if nothing out of the ordinary had transpired. Simna and Knucker slipped back into the easy camaraderie tendered by the citizens of Netherbrae more comfortably than did Ehomba.
“That’s a beast and a half.” The swordsman tore into a hunk of fresh, heavily seeded bread. “Where’d you capture it?”
A woman seated across and slightly down the table from him replied. Not because it was her place, but because all the men within range of the swordsman’s question had their mouths full of food.
“It was taken in the forest far from here, where the Hrugar Mountains begin to climb toward the sky.” She sipped daintily at her tumbler. “Not far from the lowest slopes of Mount Scathe. It took two parties of men to bring it down with ropes, and three to haul it back to Netherbrae on a makeshift sled.”
“An impressive feat.” Ehomba spoke quietly, as always. “What was it doing?”
She blinked at him, her eyes still lively but her tone momentarily confused. “Doing?”
“When it was captured. Who was it attacking, or threatening?”
The husky man seated next to her cleared his throat and replied before she could respond. “It wasn’t attacking or threatening anyone, friend. I know—I was there.” He grinned proudly. “I was one of the woodcutters who brought it down. Such strength! It fought us like a mad thing, which of course is what it is. A savage, unclean beast.”
Ehomba considered. “But surely the forest is full of animals. Why take this one from where it was living and bring it all the way back to Netherbrae?”
“Because it’s not useful.” Another man spoke up. “The wapiti and the rabbit, the birds and the rodents, are all useful, all nutritious.” With a piece of pork he gestured in the direction of the now silent cage. The slice of meat flapped loosely in his hand. “Just by looking at this thing you can tell it’s no good to eat.”
The herdsman nodded understandingly. “Then why go to the trouble of bringing it all the way back here?”
Several of the diners exchanged looks of incomprehension. “Why, because its presence was defiling our forest!” another woman declared. Her explanation was seconded by numerous murmurs from those seated nearby.
The oldest man at the table spoke up. “The teachings of Tragg tell us that the forest and everything in it belongs to us, the people of Netherbrae. We have followed those teachings and they have been good to us. Tragg is much pleased. The trees are ours to cut down, the nuts and berries ours to gather, the animals ours to eat. Anything not of use must be given a use, or eliminated.” A chorus of exuberant “Aye!” s rose from his fellow citizens.
“You have seen how clean our community is. That is because we are careful to get rid of everything that is not useful.”
“Very interesting,” Ehomba admitted. “What about us?”
Next to him Simna paused in midbite. Knucker’s eyes began to dart and his fingers to fidget. But the silence that enveloped their table lasted barely a second or two before the old man responded.
“Visitors bring stories of other lands, new knowledge, and amusing tales. These things are useful. We look forward to them because we do not travel ourselves.” Looking around the table, he grinned and nodded. “Why should we? Who would ever want to leave Netherbrae?”
This time assent was not only general but loud, amounting to cheering more than mere agreement. Ehomba thought some of it might have been a little forced, but in the general melee of good humor it was hard to tell for certain.
“If the beast is of no use, why do you keep him around?”
“Of no use?” Rising from his seat, a slim young man hefted a small bowl of table scraps. “Watch this!” Drawing back his arm, he threw it at the cage. It described a graceful arc before striking the massive, hairy back right between the shoulders and bouncing off. The cowed creature shuffled forward an inch or so, looking neither up nor around.
Sitting down, the young man laughed heartily. His companions at the table laughed with him.
“It amuses us.” The words of the woman who had first spoken broke through the general jocularity. “By letting children throw things at it, their fear of the beasts that inhabit the deep forest is lessened. And in this we feel we are truly heeding the word of Tragg, and not straying from the example he long ago set for us Himself.”
Someone passed the herdsman a plate full of fat pulled from various meats. “Here, friend. Wouldn’t you like to have a go yourself?”
A softly smiling Ehomba declined politely. “Your offer is generous, and in the deep spirit of friendship we have already come to admire here in Netherbrae, but since I am not a true follower of Tragg and am sadly ignorant of so much of his teaching, I feel it would be presumptuous of me to participate in one of his ceremonies. Better not to waste it.”
“Who said anything about wasting it?” To the accompaniment of encouraging hoots and hollers, one of the other women seated at the table rose and threw the plate. Her arm was not as strong or her aim as accurate as that of the young man who had preceded her. To much good-natured merriment, the plate fell short and clanged off the floor of the cage. But she was applauded for her effort.
His face an unreadable mask, Ehomba rose from the bench. “We do not know how to thank you enough for this wonderful evening, and for the hospitality all of you have shown us. But we are tired from our long walk today, and must be on our way tomorrow. So I think we will turn in.”
“Tired?” Raising his recently refilled tumbler, a gleeful Simna saluted their new friends and surroundings. “Who’s tired?”
Glaring down, the herdsman put a hand on his companion’s shoulder. A surprisingly heavy hand. “Tomorrow we must start across the Hrugar Mountains. We will need our rest.”
“Hoy, bruther, and I’ll get mine.” The terse-voiced swordsman brusquely shook off the long-fingered hand. “I’m your friend and confidant, Etjole. Not one of your village adolescents.”
Next to him, a determined Knucker raised his own drinking utensil. “I’m not tired, either. I can’t remember the last night I had such a good time!” Hesitantly, he sipped from his cup. When no one objected, he sipped harder.
“Same here.” Simna smiled up at the dour-faced herdsman. “You’re so concerned, bruther, use some of your sorceral skills. Sleep for the three of us!”
“Perhaps I will.” Disappointed in his companions, Ehomba rose and headed for the entrance to the tavern that led to the inn’s outer office and the front door, leaving his friends to their elective dissolution.
Across the table, two men leaned forward, inquisitive uncertainty on their faces. “Is your traveling companion truly a sorcerer?”
Simna took a slug from his tumbler, ignoring the fact that Knucker was once more imbibing steadily. Furthermore, the little man gave no indication of stopping or slowing down. But the swordsman was feeling too content to notice, or to object.
“I’m convinced of it, but if so he’s the strangest one imaginable. Insists he’s nothing but a herder of cattle and sheep, refuses to use magic even to save his own life. Depends on alchemy he insists arises not from any skills of his own, but from that bequeathed to him by old women and such of his village.” The swordsman looked in the direction of the main portal but Ehomba had already disappeared, on his way to rejoin the fourth member of their party in the stables around back.
“I’ve seen much of the world in my travelings and met many strange folk, but by Giskret’s Loom, he’s for surely the most peculiar and mysterious of the lot.” Silent for a moment after concluding his explanation, he shrugged and downed the contents of his tumbler. Accompanied by smiles and laughter, it was quickly refilled.
“He didn’t look like much of a sorcerer to me,” declared one of the men.
“You’d far sooner convince me that someone that odd-looking dotes on the droppings of cows!” quipped another. General jollity followed this jest.
Simna knew the not-so-veiled insult to his friend should have bothered him. But he was having too good a time, and the middling attractive woman at the far end of the table was eyeing him with more than casual curiosity. So he thrust the abrasive comment aside and smiled back at her. He’d always been good at ignoring that which distressed him, especially when it came at the ultimate expense of others.
Alongside him, a happy Knucker held out his tumbler to be refilled. Within that sturdy container many things could be drowned—including promises made.