Not every name showed such a piddling amount of creativity. Nobody knew why my home islands were named Ir. My people enjoyed speculating about it, often punched and kicked each other about it, and regarded the most fanciful theories with favor.
When I was a young sorcerer, always walking the rim of destruction, I traveled outside the western kingdoms for a time. The variety of nonsensical names stunned me. I visited the depraved port towns of Lilligat and Roolipp in the northern kingdoms. The island realm of Hep lay northeast beyond the isthmus of Cliffthrot. I once traveled east with Halla to visit her homeland, Mamalan, which means “Deep Places” in her language.
The Hill People have two names for everything: a work name and a love name. The work name for their empire is Arisapop, which just means the Hill Lands. Its love name is Liss-Queripai-Ma. To my knowledge, they have never translated that name for anybody outside their people.
Frontier folks name their villages Nob, Kek, Sandypool, and so forth. Frontier life breeds unpretentious people.
Harik had commanded me to deliver his book in the city ahead of us. When I finally asked, Leddie informed us it was the city of Caislin. Four hours before sunset, we topped a long hill and rode onto a green flatland so rich it looked like you could eat it. Half a mile away stood a sizable, neat city built of gray stone and reddish wood. No wall protected the place, and it appeared we could ride in from any quarter we wished.
“Stop! Stop, damn your shrunken narbs!” Leddie yelled from behind me. “You can’t be this stupid after all you’ve lived through!”
“Halla?” I said, staring straight ahead.
“He is that stupid. Do not underestimate his stupidity.”
“Thank you, darling.” I kicked my horse and pushed on toward the city. I heard Leddie following, throwing out a rope of curses.
I soon saw that the velvety, green fields were smeared and peppered with herds of fat, white goats. I hesitated to guess their number, but there must have been thousands. I spotted no farms growing crops. Maybe the goats had overwhelmed them and eaten every shoot of barley and wheat that pushed out of the ground.
I angled to make our entrance at what seemed to be a side street. It wasn’t deserted, though. A soldier stood in the middle of the road, and another leaned against a stone wall. Both wore leather armor and carried scabbarded swords. Two helmets lay on a barrel beside them. I saw one of them drink from a skin as I rode closer.
The drinker appeared to be a powerful man in his prime. His long hair was black and his skin pale. The one leaning against the wall was tall, thin, and gray, probably older than me. They watched us, but neither called out as I rode closer.
With no plan in mind, I halted. “Hello, boys. We’re strangers here.”
“Yep.” The older man nodded, still leaning. “I can tell that.” He yawned. “I hope that all strangers might eat rocks and shit cactus in hell. Not a personal comment.”
The younger man held up the skin. “Have a drink?”
I reached out with my numb left hand, careful not to drop the skin. The numbness had crept past my elbow and was headed toward my shoulder. I grasped the skin, sniffed it, and squirted a polite amount of decent wine into my mouth. I reached out to return it, but he waved me off. “Pass it ’round. Keep it. I got more.” He shrugged as if he didn’t care what I did.
“Thanks.” I handed the skin to Halla. “I’m Desh the goat merchant, here to buy a shipload of goats. Who has goats to sell?”
“Guess that would be the goat farmers,” the older man said, standing and stretching his back. “Look around. If you spit hard, you’ll hit one. Can’t buy any goats, though.” He yawned again.
I waited. After ten seconds, the younger man added, “Lord Babardi’s got to say if you can.”
I smiled. I had seen lazy soldiers before, but these were exceptional examples. “So I’ll ask him. Where is he?”
“You won’t ask him.” The younger one scowled for a moment, and then his face drooped again. “He doesn’t see anybody.”
“Anymore,” the older man said. “Desh, you turn around and head home. That’s just advice, nothing more. I won’t try to make you or anything.”
Halla was watching me. Leddie was staring down, hiding her face from these men. Whistler and Bea sat their horses in the rear.
I said, “Gentlemen, I think I’ll try anyway. Where does this lord live?”
“Don’t,” the young one said. The older one was shaking his head.
“I have no choice. I’ve got people who’ll starve without goats to eat.”
The soldiers glanced at each other. Then the older one said, “All right, Desh. I’m Aran. Let me show you something.” He turned and ambled up the street. I followed on my horse at a slow walk.
Aran led us down a stone-paved lane, made a jog to the right, and turned onto a wider street. Fifteen minutes and two more turns later, we reached a big square. Aran nodded toward a rough, wooden structure in the middle. It stood ten feet by ten feet and was guarded by at least four dark-haired, well-armed men.
“What in Krak’s back teeth is that?” I said.
Aran put his finger to his lips and cupped his ear with the other hand.
I held my breath and listened. Somebody was crying in there. In fact, more than one person was crying.
Aran rubbed his eyes. “Babardi says we must ignore that. He won’t even look at it or listen. Sorry, I mean to say His Lordship the Mighty Lord Babardi won’t look. I can’t be disrespectful.” He farted, an echoing,
