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constructed. We saw fields of crops growing, and herds of something
grazing: large animals, cowlike, except for their heads, which were small,
the faces resembling bighorn sheep. Weird-looking beasties.
Gwonnis, two miles away from a pass through the nearest mountain
range, was surrounded by some of the most fertile land I'd yet seen. It was
large enough to be considered a town. Wide paths (roads, I'll call them
roads) intersected at the hub, where diverse people noisily bought and
sold goods at a marketplace. A lively street, but not with the sort of
carnival atmosphere I might have expected; no dancing dogs, fire-eaters,
painted ladies with bells on their toes, nothing like that.
Now, aside from his prowess in battle the other day, you might've
gotten this impression of Kimbal as the ultimate country naif, Gomer Pyle
just off the turnip truck, you know. But I have to say, he handled himself
pretty well in the big town. You see, what I didn't know until now was that
the kind of transportation he hoped to procure was not the easiest to find.
If I understood him correctly, you could say that what we were doing was
against the law. (Yeah, but so was taking his girlfriend and ripping off my
Bukko, so we didn't care.)
After making a few inquiries, we found the guy Kimbal was looking for
in a seedy tavern. I waited at the bar, sipping a drink that tasted like
cinnamon-flavored dishwater, while he spoke to the rat-faced fellow.
When money had changed hands a second time, Kimbal waved for me to
follow them outside.
As we walked through Gwonnis a couple of yards behind the weasel,
Kimbal said, "He at first denied owning even a single tennapacer. But as
you saw, there are ways to deal with the likes of him."
I nodded. "Right. What's a tennapacer?"
The teenager smiled. "It is hard to describe them. You'll see one soon
enough. They are rare creatures, found only in canyons far to the north.
Possessing them is an offense in every known place across Murlug. Still,
there is no better way to travel the vast, rugged distances than atop a
tennapacer, so men like this risk the penalties for the rewards."
"Gee, I can't imagine anyone doing something like that," I said dryly,
and he looked at me sort of weird, like maybe / was the naif.
The weasel led us past the eastern edge of Gwonnis. We were still on a
road, or at least something that vaguely resembled one, only because the
sandals of numerous people had fallen within its general boundaries. It
was still pretty rugged; would've caused havoc to the wheels of anything, if
anything here had wheels. As yet it looked like that most lofty of
inventions had escaped the simple folk of Murlug.
A mile out of town the weasel veered off in the direction of some craggy
hills. Not having seen another living soul for a while, I was starting to get
nervous. I mean, what if there were no tennapacers out here? What if the
weasel had some buddies waiting to jump us, take the rest of Kimbal's
money and slit our throats? When Kimbal glanced at me and fingered his
sword, I knew he was thinking the same thing.
We must've come two miles now, which I hadn't planned on, because
my feet were already killing me from the long day. Kamamakama reed
sandals had nothing over a good pair of Adidas. The foothills closed in
around us, and we studied every possible niche for signs of an ambush. I
would have expected the weasel to be casting furtive glances behind him,
but all we saw was the back of his knobby head. To tell the truth, I don't
think he looked back even once since we left Gwonnis.
"Dealing in tennapacers requires this sort of secrecy," Kimbal
whispered. "Still, let us be wary."
One of the mountain slopes loomed on our right when the weasel
motioned for us to stop. He walked up to what appeared to be a wall of
solid rock. But when he rapped on it three times with his knuckles, there
was a hollow sound. A clever camouflage was moved aside, revealing the
mouth of a cave, where another weasel stood. Our weasel waved us
forward. We hesitated.
Grinning a grin of rotted teeth (what else?), our weasel said, "We may
be the scum of the land, but we are honest scum. What kind of business
would we have if word got around that we robbed and murdered our
customers? Now get in here."
It hadn't occurred to me until the moment I crossed the threshold how
awful a closed-in cave containing some kind of animals would smell.
Compared to this place, Averill the Second Apprentice Dungmaster
(probably promoted by now) bore the aroma of the perfume counter at
Nordstorm's. Kimbal showed only mild displeasure; I tried not to gag as
we followed the weasels.
There were twelve stalls, each occupied by a tennapacer. Surprise, it
was deja vu again. In every book I'd ever written, from Blood Roaches of
Gasklar to Mutant Bats of Krimmia, I had created at least one
unspeakable monstrosity such as the things before us right now.
A tennapacer looked like a three-toed sloth; not the little guy you see
hanging from a tree branch, but a huge thing over fifteen feet long, like
the ground-walking mylodon from the Pleistocene Age. Some of its cousins
got stuck in the La Brea tar pits and are still hanging around Los Angeles.
The tennapacers had elongated skulls with mouths containing lots of
teeth. Sloths and their ancestors were supposed to be herbivores; I hope
these fellows knew that.
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