In this Ehomba was of no help. Ever since they had entered the town, the soft-voiced herdsman had altered nothing. His expression, his posture, the loose, casual manner in which he held his spear: all were unchanged. Whether this seeming indifference was perceived by the ghastly inhabitants of Skawpane as an invitation to feast or supreme confidence in powers they could not descry remained to be seen.
At least they were not immune to the effects of a well-honed blade, skillfully wielded, the swordsman reflected. He gripped his sword a little tighter.
“Hoy, bruther, where’s the water you promised us?”
“Promised?” Ehomba glanced down at his friend. “If you would put food in my mouth with as much ease as you do words, I would never grow hungry again.” Simna might think him detached, but his cool dark eyes missed nothing. “We need to ask someone.”
“Don’t you mean something?” The swordsman skipped agilely to one side as a crow soaring past overhead relieved itself. The dark red dropping sizzled where it struck the moist, mephitic street.
“I wonder why someone—or something—chose to put a town here, in the worst place imaginable?” Ehomba mused as they walked on. The buildings were moving slightly apart as the street widened. They were coming to some kind of central square or plaza.
Simna’s retort was tense and edgy. “Maybe it’s a summer resort, where the residents can come to escape the heat of their customary surroundings. Who knows what monstrosities like these consider attractive in the way of climate or countryside?”