Free Into the Thinking Kingdoms by Alan Dean Foster Page A

“If we are lucky. What you told Ahlitah makes sense to me, too, but I think it may take the merchant some time to convince the authorities that there is real urgency to the matter.” The herdsman glanced at the sky. “It is still several hours to sunrise. At this hour he may have trouble finding anyone to listen to him, sympathetic
or
skeptical.”
    Simna nodded agreement. “Tell me, bruther—if it wasn’t sorcery, what
did
you use to rouse our four-legged friend from his trance? I’ve never seen anything, man or beast, released so quickly from the bonds of heavy sedation.”
    “It was a potion made for me by old Meruba. To wake a man unconscious from injury, so that he may have a chance to walk away from a place of danger.”
    “Ah,” commented the swordsman knowingly. “Some kind of smelling salts.”
    The herdsman looked down at him. “No salts, my friend. In the sheltered river valleys of my country there is an animal we call the oris. It is the size of a mature, healthy pig, has four short horns and long black fur that it drags upon the ground. Three red stripes run from its head along its back and down to the tip of its tail. The female defends itself against those like Ahlitah that eat meat by spraying from glands above its hind parts a scent that is God’s own musk. This is the same stink it uses to attract males of its kind, but it will also attract any other warm-blooded male animal in the vicinity. It can only hope that a male of its own kind reaches it first. When employed as a defense, it works by altering the intention of any male meat-eater that threatens attack, and by confusing any female predator.”
    “I see.” Simna grinned as he ran. “So the perfume of this oris is irresistible to any male, and you roused our four-legged friend by letting him have a whiff of the stuff.” He found himself eyeing the herdsman’s pack. “When we again find ourselves in more accommodating surroundings, I might ask you to let me have a quick sniff. Just out of curiosity’s sake, you understand,” he added hastily.
    “You do not want to do that.”
    “Why not?” The swordsman nodded in the direction of the black litah, who was leading the way through darkened city streets. “He handled it without trouble.”
    “The capacity of his nose is many times yours, or ours. But that is not the problem.”
    “Hoy? Then what is?”
    “Meruba’s bottle holds only a couple of drops, but they are not drops of oris musk. They are drops concentrated from musk taken from the glands of fifty oris.”
    “Oh.” Simna frowned uncertainly. “That’s bad?”
    Ehomba looked down at him. As usual, the herdsman was not smiling. “If need be, you will attack yourself.”
    Simna ibn Sind considered this. He contemplated it from several angles, eventually coming to the conclusion that he fervently disliked every one of them.
    “That’s nasty,” he finally confessed to his friend.
    “Indeed it is.”
    Again the swordsman indicated the big cat, pacing along in front of them. “Greater capacity or not, our swarthy friend seems to be managing the aftereffects with no difficulty.”
    “So far,” Ehomba agreed. “Still, with oris musk one can never be too careful.” He met Simna’s eye as they ran, racing to reach the outskirts of sleepy Lybondai before sunrise. “Why do you think I am making sure to run
behind
the litah?”

 
     
    V
    E verywhere they paused for breath they asked if anyone had news of one Haramos bin Grue, but the people who lived on the outskirts of the great port city had little to do with sailors and traders and those who haunted the waterfront. These craftsfolk survived beneath the notice of the wealthier merchants and traders who dominated the commerce of the south coast of Premmois. At least the wily merchant had not lied about Hamacassar: those they questioned confirmed that it was indeed a real place, and the port most likely to harbor ships and men willing to dare a crossing of the vast