From what she could see, although there were no women and children in the group, Kabeiros' reasoning about the sounds he heard were correct. These people did not look like outlaws. They were well fed, and even those who were doing the hardest and least respected work were not in rags.
She came forward again, slowly but not pausing. Using the waterskin to cover the hare and the herbs, she made her way to the well. No one seemed to notice her as she dropped the bucket and drew it up. Undoing a plug from the opening, she poured water from the bucket into the skin, rinsed it thorougly, drew another bucket, and began to fill it. When water gurgled in the neck of the skin, she replaced the plug carefully and slung the bag over her shoulder. She was wondering as she turned away from the well, whom she should approach, but the matter was taken out of her hands.
"Who are you?"
Hekate jumped, almost bumping into a bearded man who had come up behind her close enough to grab her. She bowed very slightly, relieved that she had understood him. The people of Ka'anan spoke the same language as those of Lud, Mesheck, and Togarmah, but with many variations. She knew that the speech of Ka'anan was heavily salted with words of the traders of the west and of Egypt; Mesheck was even more Egyptian. This man spoke what seemed like an old form of Ka'anan, without the many embellishments the language had absorbed from its neighbors and trading partners. However, the three words had been comprehensible.
"By your leave, good sir," Hekate spoke slowly, hoping he would understand. "I am a fellow traveler on the road."
"Are you?" he asked, his voice hard. "I didn't see you come into the campsite and neither did my guards."
"I came in the back, from the path to the necessary."
"Secretly? To spy on us?"
The swift angry questions proved to Hekate that Kabeiros had been right about dangers in traveling on the road. It would be wise to join a caravan. But Hekate didn't allow her thoughts to slow her response. She shook her head at once.
"Oh, no, sir. I did come in quietly. You are many; we are few. I admit I wished to escape notice. All I wanted was to fill my waterskin and . . . and we have come to the end of our fuel. I hoped you were peaceful folk and I could make a trade for some charcoal. See—" she raised the hare and the bundles of herbs "—I have this hare—it was fresh killed today—and these herbs—these are strips of willow bark, which steeped in water or wine is good to soothe pain and fever, and this mullein, which when crushed is good to lay on bruises."
She met his eyes hopefully, then looked away as if out of shyness, but quick sidelong glances under lowered lashes revealed several men quietly leaving the camp by both exits. Hekate suspected that they had gone to check on where the rest of her party was and discover if they were peaceful or dangerous. She was a little annoyed; they would find nothing but her drying herbs—she had already warned Kabeiros to hide with a quick mental thrust—however, she realized that she wouldn't be able to conceal the fact that she was traveling alone. She had just time enough for a grateful thought about Kabeiros insisting she prepare a credible story when the moment of revelation drew closer.
"You are a woman!" the trader exclaimed, having examined her features with more care. "Why is your hair bound up in a turban like a man?"
Hekate hitched the waterskin higher on her shoulder, using that movement to disguise a step toward the rear exit from the campsite. "When I saw you were all men here," she said, "I was afraid to come among you as a woman."
He snorted and took a half step toward her to which Hekate responded by taking another long backward step toward the exit. The trader shook his head, but did not argue the point she had made nor her keeping her distance from him. Indeed, he looked thoughtful and was silent, biting his lip, and giving Hekate time to examine him more closely.
Both beard and hair, long and bound back by a leather thong, were black, and the beard, although neatly trimmed, curled, and combed, covered so much of his face that his features were not easy to make out. However they were dominated by a great beak of a nose, and what she could see of his lips were full and neither drawn tight nor loose with overindulgence in pleasure. The eyes, very dark and shaded under beetling brows, looked kind . . . and worried.
"How do I know what you have here is willow bark?" he snapped. "For all I know it could be poison."
Hekate felt a stirring of interest. The worried expression and the interest in willow bark implied that someone was ill. "I'll steep some and drink it, sir. Although it's very bitter, willow has little or no effect on a person in good health so it is perfectly safe for anyone to take. Those who have pain or fever are often soothed."
"And why should I take your word?"
"For that I have no answer except the offer I made to prove to you that the potion I will make is harmless to me. I can't swear that it will help anyone who is ill without knowing what ails that person, but I am a healer—at least, I am an herb-wife—"
"Are you?" he asked, interrupting almost eagerly. "And will your husband allow you to help a sick child?"
"I am sure he would have," Hekate replied, her heart clenching at the thought of a sick child. "He was a most kindly person, but I have no husband now."
"I am sorry, for your loss." Absorbed in his own problem, the statement was perfunctory. "What of your new lord? Would he be willing to lend your service? We have no healer with our group and . . . and my daughter . . . ails."
At that moment, one of the men who had left the clearing hurried to the trader's side. This one's clothing was as fine as the trader's own and he wore a sword. He spoke briefly into the trader's ear, too low for her to hear, but the trader, who had turned partly away, turned back and stared at her—but not before Hekate had moved even closer to the way out.
This time he noticed. "Where are your people?" he asked, following and grasping her arm.
*Be ready,* Hekate mind-shouted to Kabeiros.
*I'm at the back opening.*
*Not yet,* Hekate added quickly, as the man released her arm when she winced away. *He has a sick child. If he will let me treat it, we will be able to join the caravan.* Then, to the trader, she said aloud. "I have no party. I am alone."
"A woman? Alone?" His lips tightened. "Where is your home? I'll take you back to the husband you have shamelessly abandoned."
Hekate laughed. "You will have a long journey and no welcome at the end. I come from near Damascus. And I have no husband. I didn't lie to you. My husband is dead."
"Damascus? Alone? I don't believe you!"
She shrugged. "You've already sent men to look for anyone else and found no one. I've no doubt your men saw my little camp with my drying herbs." The thought of the sick child pulled at her. "I'm a good herb-wife," she said, hoping he would take the hint. "I have cured many and had gratitude as well as my keep, so I have traveled safely alone. And often I wasn't alone. From one village to the next, a man or a family would let me accompany them when they went to visit married children or neighbors or to trade. Sometimes I joined a trader's caravan."
"But you didn't stay with them. Why?"
"Because they turned back on their tracks and I wished to continue onward."
"Onward? Where?"
Hekate had known the question must come and had thought about it. She didn't think it wise to say she wished to go to Colchis. Too many knew it as a place of magic, but she didn't wish to name any other particular place.
"I'm an herb-wife, and a good one, but I wish to be a true healer. I seek a well-known and respected healer who will take me as apprentice."
"There were none in Damascus?"
Disbelief was again rich in the trader's voice, but Hekate didn't mind. It was plain from what he said that he wasn't familiar with Damascus . . . or was testing her. She shook her head. "There were many, but I couldn't stay in Damascus."
"Doubtless you killed your clients and had to flee."
"I never practiced as an herb-wife in Damascus. I had a husband there." She sighed once more. "I can't make you believe me, but I
haven't harmed any of your people, nor, I'm sure, have you heard along the road of any evil herb-wife. If you will give me charcoal in trade for my hare—you don't need to take the herbs—I will be grateful. If you won't, then let me go on my way. You have no right to keep me."
Only Hekate didn't want to go. She wanted to see that sick child and make it well; it was a nagging need in her. Fortunately she had not misjudged her man.
"Let you go?" he repeated angrily. "A woman? To travel alone? Ridiculous!" He stared at her. "Did you poison your husband?"
Hekate grinned broadly. "Would I tell you if I did? Don't be ridiculous yourself." Then she sobered and said sadly, "My husband was an old man, but good and kindly, and I was very fond of him. If you go to Damascus, ask anyone about Abu Mahound. You will hear the whole story of how his daughters forbade his wife to nurse him any longer because he did not get well." She uttered a bark of bitter laughter. "How does one get well from fourscore years of life? But I had kept him alive and happy for years, and his family lost patience—or began to fear for their inheritance, lest he will it all to me. They desired his wealth more than his company. They said I was childless and useless—and they drove me out."
"And your husband could not call you back?"
"He was bedridden and weak. At first I was stunned, but then I grew so angry—I knew he would die without my tonics and my good cheer—that I forgot all fear and made a complaint before the king's scribe." Her lips twisted. "I suppose they actually did me a favor. What with my demands to be taken in and the complaint, the whole city knew I could not have killed him when he died."
Some note of bitterness or grief in her voice and manner convinced the trader. Hekate was amazed by her seeming sincerity; she almost convinced herself. When she stopped speaking, she drew a deep breath, as if shaken by emotion and added, "As for not being able to travel alone—I am here, alive and well, am I not? I have got this far alone. Why not farther?"
"But why are you traveling at all?"
"Because Abu Mahound's family is rich and powerful. They didn't want me in Damascus reminding all who owed him love and favors that they had driven me from the house so I could not care for him."
"His brothers would not take you?"
"They were older than he, long dead. His one nephew had been the first to say I wasn't caring properly for his uncle—he didn't invite me into his house and I wouldn't have gone anyway. For the others, my husband had only daughters, and they did not wish to share their husbands with me."
The trader looked at her, took in the silver eyes, the full lips, the fine skin, the wealth of raven hair, the rich body—which an effort could discern under the loose, shabby garments. He could understand why a woman would not wish to share her husband with the herb-wife. He shook his head.
"Well, if what you say is true, you've been ill-treated. But surely one of your husband's friends could have found a husband for you outside of Damascus."
"To speak the truth, I had enough of husbands—and their families. I had consulted many healers to be sure I was doing the best for my husband. Several of them were rich and independent—and two of those were women. Since I knew herbs already, it seemed better to follow in their footsteps."
The trader sighed noisily. "Independent! A woman! What is your name, O independent woman?"
"My name is Hekate." She grinned at him. "Will you trade some charcoal for the hare? I have another to cook for myself, but nothing with which to make a fire."
"Independent or not, I don't like it—a woman traveling alone! You said you joined some traders' caravans now and again. This road runs to Quatna. You have no place in mind so why don't you join us until we reach the city?"
"Gladly," Hekate answered promptly. Soon she would find a way to ask about the child. "I hoped you would ask me. Tell me where to leave my goods and my waterskin, and I will go fetch my bedding and the rest of my herbs."
"You accept and trust me . . . just like that?"
Hekate smiled at him. "You have had near a score of men within call since you first noticed I was not of your party. If you wished to do me harm, surely you had chances in plenty. Besides, I have a very faithful guardian waiting on my summons."
With that, Hekate let out a piercing whistle at the same time as she said silently, *Come now, Kabeiros, and look fierce, but don't attack. Were you able to catch what the trader said to me? I tried to echo it.*
*I heard most.*
On the words, Kabeiros appeared in the rear exit to the camping grounds. His head was lowered, his upper lip lifted, and his ears laid back, but he stood still until Hekate gestured him forward. Then he came and licked her hand.
"Here is my guardian."
"That is a magnificent dog," the trader said, staring. "What is his name?"
"Kabeiros." Hekate's lips twitched. She guessed what the man was about to do and she was right.
The trader held out his hand and said, "Kabeiros! Here!" in an authoritative voice.
Clearly the man was accustomed to handling animals and accustomed to obedience from them. Hekate sensed just the faintest wisp of a Gift for dealing with animals. That would be most useful in his profession. Kabeiros, of course, would have smelled the magic and was, in any case, immune. He ignored both hand and command, only lifting his lips a bit farther from his great fangs.
"Well!" The trader sounded indignant, then sniffed through his beak of a nose. "Who in the world trained a great dog like that to obey a woman?"
"I was Kabeiros' choice," Hekate said. "He is my friend and my companion. I doubt he would obey anyone else, man or woman."
At that the hound looked up and nuzzled her hand, and the trader drew a sharp breath.
"He is blind!" he exclaimed.
"His eyes are strange," Hekate agreed, "but he seems to see well enough. It is Kabeiros who brought down the hares, and he has fed himself on our journey."
"Kabeiros . . ." the trader muttered, looking at the dog. "Why does that name seem familiar to me?"
"I don't know," Hekate said hurriedly, not wanting to get involved in explaining why a dog had the name of a god of mischief. "But, speaking of names, you know my name and the name of my dog. Won't you tell me what to call you, good sir?"
"I am Yasmakh the trader," he said without hesitation.
Hekate bowed slightly, acknowledging that mark of acceptance. "If you trust me to join your caravan, won't you also trust me enough to look upon this sick child? I swear I am a good herb-wife. Also, I promise to do nothing without explaining to you what I do, to do no harm to the child with or without explanation, and to tell you honestly if I can't help."
For a moment hope and anxiety twisted Yasmakh's lips and furrowed his brow. Then, as if answering an argument made many times, he said, "I had to bring her. I had no one with whom to leave her. And she enjoyed our travel so much . . . so much." He hesitated a little longer, staring into Hekate's face, then sighed. "It can't hurt her if you look at her." He bit his lip. "She . . . doesn't answer me any more."
CHAPTER 10
There was only one small tent set up, and it was to this that Yasmakh led Hekate. The hound paced beside her but sat down at the tent flap rather than entering, which was just as well since Hekate suspected that Yasmakh wouldn't want a dog inside a "dwelling." The thought was fleeting, however, her attention fixing on the pallet on which a child lay—but not quietly, although she seemed too weak to toss violently.
Clearly she had done so and was weakening. Her hair was tangled and matted and the blanket that once covered her was twisted and cast aside. She turned her head fretfully and muttered hoarsely. Hekate knelt down beside her, careful not to touch her.
"She asks for water," Hekate said.
The trader burst into tears. "But she cannot drink," he sobbed. "I've tried and tried, but the water runs out of her mouth and she cries with pain when she tries to swallow."
Hekate's eyes widened. "Mother have mercy," she whispered, and then, louder, to the trader, "Has she been bitten by
any animal, a dog or a cat or a wild creature?"
"No, that I can swear." Yasmakh shuddered. "I know that sickness. I would have killed her myself, if she had been bitten, rather than let her suffer and suffer only to die. I know there is no cure for that."
"Then I pray what ails her is not hopeless, but now I must touch her. I must look into her throat. And for that I need light. May I move her to the door?"
"I will move her," he said jealously.
He carried her, pallet and all, and laid her down athwart the tent opening. Hekate pulled aside the flap.
"Hold this," she said to Kabeiros, and he took the edge of the cloth in his mouth and kept it from falling shut. "Now you must stand behind her and open her mouth," Hekate said to Yasmakh. While he struggled to get the child's mouth open and to hold her head still, Hekate took from her pouch a small, carefully wrapped item which when unwrapped exposed a very highly polished piece of metal. Catching the light of the westering sun on its surface, she pointed it into the child's throat.
"Oh my," she said.
On each side of the throat there were usually two small lumps of flesh for which Hekate had never discovered any purpose except to make trouble. She had seen them swollen and mottled from time to time and had prescribed hot astringent gargles, which usually cleared the mottling and shrank the flesh nubbins to their normal size. In this child's throat, the lumps had swollen so that they almost touched and they were completely covered with white and yellow-green pustules.
"Can you cure her?" the father pleaded.
"I don't know," Hekate admitted, slowly rewrapping her bright bit of metal. "I have seen this illness before and I have cured it, but I've never seen so terrible an attack. And how can an unconscious child lave her throat with the liquid I must mix?" She bit her lip. "There must be a way."
Only Hekate was not really thinking of the throat gargle. She knew that was too little and too late for this child. To save her, she would have to use magic. And it was only a girl child. What if there were someone in the camp who could read or feel that she was using spells? What if these people were violently opposed to the use of magic? The Mother alone knew what would happen. Her lips parted to say she could do nothing, but she could not bring out the words.
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