by David Drake
From the look on Metron's face as he turned away, he did finally understand.
Cashel cleared his throat. It was hard for him to think properly with the little brown people crying, &dquot;Master!" and "Great lord!"
Tilphosa rested a hand on his biceps, looking for reassurance. This wasn't a bad place she and Cashel were in, but it sure was confusing.
“I wish you'd stand straight and just talk to us!” Cashel said. The little people jumped up and stared like bunnies startled in the garden. Cashel supposed he'd spoken louder than maybe he'd needed to. He'd startled Tilphosa too, though she patted him and put her hand back on his arm just as quick.
“Lord?” the oldest of the little fellows said questioningly. Cashel had expected some of the people to fuss over the man he'd saved from the tree, but nobody seemed interested in him. He was sitting up, but his eyes didn't focus yet.
“My name's Cashel,” Cashel said. “Just call me that. And this is Tilphosa—”
He frowned and looked at the girl. “Ah?” he said. “Lady ... ?”
“Just Tilphosa,” she said, speaking directly to the little people. “And how are we to address you, sir?”
Of course Tilphosa was used to this sort of thing, meeting people and taking charge. It wasn't something Cashel had ever had to learn about.
He smiled. Everybody in the borough knew who to turn to get their sheep settled down, though.
“We're the Helpers, great lady,” the old man said. “My name is Twenty-second. May we feast you at our village, great lord and lady?”
Cashel's belly rumbled at mention of food. The berries had been a long while ago. From what he'd seen in the village he didn't guess there was a chance of bread and cheese, let alone meat, but most anything would go down a treat right now.
He looked at Tilphosa, expecting her to speak. She nodded crisply to him, passing back control: this was his job.
“Sure, we'd like that,” Cashel said to Twenty-second. He pointed. “Ah, what's his name? The fellow who was being eaten.”
“He was Fourteenth,” Twenty-second said. “Come, great lord and lady, let us feast!”
The whole troupe fluttered around Cashel and Tilphosa, chattering among themselves. Their voices too high-pitched for Cashel to make out the words—if there were words, not just a sort of birdlike chirping.
Girls no taller than Cashel's waist took his hands. Three of them walked on either side, guiding him in the direction of the village. He held the staff crosswise in front of him while the girls skipped along and behind it like a train of draft animals hitched to a bar.
He glanced over his shoulder. Tilphosa was being conducted in the same fashion, though in her case by a bevy of young males. The rest of the Helpers spread to either side in a loose line. A few adults had run on ahead, vanishing into the immaculate plantings like deer in the forest.
“I'm hungry,” Tilphosa called when he caught her eye. “Even if it isn't cooked food.”
Cashel grinned in answer, but he was frowning again when he faced the front. He could just make out Fourteenth, still where Cashel had flung him clear. He hadn't moved since he sat up. The rest of the tribe had left him there alone.
Twenty-second walked a few paces to the right, smiling when Cashel looked over to him. “Lord?” the old man said.
Cashel almost asked about Fourteenth, but said instead, “Do you get many visitors here, Master Twenty-second?”
“No, no,” Twenty-second replied. “You're the first one in—”
He turned up his palms in uncertainty. “I don't know how long,” he said. “My father spoke of visitors, but whether he saw them or his own father did and told the tale, I don't know.”
Cashel looked at the little man and looked up at the sun, now nearing zenith. The days and nights here seemed to be the usual length. Even if the years also were the same as Cashel was used to, though, these Helpers might not live as long as folks did—the lucky ones did, anyway—back home. It explained why they were making such a big thing about him and Tilphosa arriving, though.
The girls led Cashel in a gently weaving path. At first he thought it was high spirits and one girl or another tugging him more firmly than the girls on the other side. A shepherd learns to note small changes in the land, because sheep do. After a little while, Cashel realized that the girls were taking him by a path that led through the least amount of vegetation.
The Helpers themselves seemed not to trouble even the thickest foliage. Twenty-second walked through a stand of virgin's bower, but the white starry flowers were scarcely waving when the old man reached the outcrop beyond.
Cashel glanced back at Tilphosa. He'd have told her what he'd just figured out, but that might embarrass the Helpers. He decided to watch his own feet as much as he could and whisper to Tilphosa when they were sitting down.
They reached the village again. Quite a number of the tribefolk—a double handful, it looked like—were already at work in the central courtyard and carrying food from the drying racks. Others appeared from the forest, bearing handfuls of fresh fruit and nuts.
The Helpers didn't seem to make baskets any more than they wore clothing. Cashel thought about squirrels again; but they weren't, they were people who were just smaller than the folks in the borough.
The Helpers were too nice to be squirrels. From what Cashel'd seen so far, they were also too nice to be most of the people he'd met thus far in his lifetime. Except for the way they'd ignored Fourteenth after Cashel freed him, and there might be more going on there than an outsider could see.
The girls released Cashel at the passage between the huts. Twenty-second outstretched his hand as a guide without quite touching Cashel and led him into the courtyard.
“Ah, where should we sit?” Cashel asked, checking over his shoulder to make sure Tilphosa was with him.
“Anywhere you please, lord and lady,” Twenty-second said with a sweep of his arm. “Wherever you are is the place of honor. Will you have juice or water to refresh you before the meal?”
“Ah, I guess water,” Cashel said. He gestured Tilphosa to sit—on bare dirt, but they'd slept on nothing better the night before.
She sat, murmuring, “Water for me as well, thank you,” to the older woman who'd entered behind her.
More Helpers were bustling into the courtyard, some carrying food and drink while others merely seated themselves in the open area. Cashel remained standing for a moment, his back to a hut, and he watched. Things didn't seem right; meaning that they didn't seem like anyplace he'd been before, not that there was anything wrong exactly about it.
The Helpers wouldn't hurt a fly, he thought. And indeed, maybe they wouldn't; but Cashel hadn't seen any flies or mice or any other animals around since he got up this morning.
Twenty-second took a container from a younger member of the tribe. Instead of offering it directly to Cashel, he pointedly drank from it himself and only then held it out.
Cashel felt his skin go hot; he hadn't realized his suspicions were so obvious to his hosts. He took the cup in his left hand and drank—
Cautiously at first: he might be embarrassed at his suspicions, but he was still suspicious. There was nothing but water in the cup, cool but really too flat to do more than cut the dust.
The container was kind of interesting, though. It wasn't pottery, just sun-dried clay. Sap or gum coated the inside to seal it the way Reise tarred the leathern jacks he used for crowds during the Sheep Fair. Unlike tar, this coating didn't flavor the drink. It was soft enough to dent with a thumbnail, but it rose back to a smooth surface afterward.
Tilphosa was being served from a similar cup—and again, the old woman beside her drank first. Tilphosa looked up at Cashel, her blank expression hiding surprise. Cashel squatted beside her, propping his staff against the hut where he could reach it easily if he had to.
The Helpers knelt rather than sitting—like Tilphosa—or squatting. Twenty-second dropped into place on Cashel's other side. Immediately a younger Helpe
r offered the apparent chief several red apples that dwarfed his outspread small hands.
“An apple, lord?” Twenty-second said, taking a delicate, bite out of one and holding it out to Cashel.
“Thanks, but I'll have a whole one,” Cashel said, taking an apple directly from the servitor. It was pleasantly tart, tasting something like the green-ripening fruit that peddlers occasionally packed into Barca's Hamlet from orchards in the south of the island.
Cashel ate the apple down to the core and paused, wondering what to do. At home he'd have tossed it onto a midden or, if he were with the sheep, seen if he could get it into the sea. A servant plucked the core from his fingers before he was aware of her presence and disappeared with it.
The meal continued, fruits alternating with nuts. Many of the dishes were new to Cashel, but they were mostly good and often excellent. Twenty-second used a sharp stone to bore through the shell of a head-sized nut, drank from the opening, and then gave it to Cashel. The milky contents had flavor that the plain water lacked; Cashel drank the nut empty and was pleased to have more when the old man opened another.
Cashel hadn't expected this food to really fill him, but the nuts surprised him by doing a pretty good job of replacing the bread and cheese he was used to. A servant used a rock to break open the big nut after Cashel had drained it; the meat inside was solid and crunchy, with the same pleasant flavor as the milk.
And the food—not dishes, except the tumblers for water and the juices Cashel now drank cheerfully—kept coming. Each one was different; and each time Twenty-second politely insisted on taking a bite or a sip before the remainder was offered to Cashel.
The older female beside Tilphosa—her name was Seventeenth, if Cashel had heard right—tasted the girl's food also. It wasn't necessary anymore, but Cashel decided it was better just to ignore the business than to make a fuss that probably wouldn't change anything. For all their small size and friendliness, the Helpers were about as stubborn as the nanny goat Squinty Offot used to lead his sheep.
“Lord Cashel?” Twenty-second asked, as Cashel lowered a tumbler of sparkling red juice that he hadn't been able to drain. “Would you and the great lady care to bathe now that you've eaten? You've been travelling far, I can see.”
Cashel was glad that his suntan hid the blush that would've returned to his face. “I can see...” the old man had said, but he'd probably meant, "smell." Ordinarily back home Cashel had ended his workday by scrubbing off, at least in any weather that didn't mean he had to break ice in the millpond first. He hadn't been able to do that since—well, since he'd dragged Tilphosa out of the surf.
“Down at the creek, you mean?” Cashel said. Down by that tree, was what he was thinking. It'd be a chance to see how things were going with Fourteenth, not that it was exactly his business... .
“Oh, no, we have a bath hut here,” the old man said. He pointed to the hut on the left side of the passage into the courtyard. It was bigger than the others, but not enough bigger to remark on.
“If you'd like?” Twenty-second said. “Or perhaps your great lady would prefer to be bathed first? There isn't room enough for both of you together, I'm afraid. You're so much... so different from us Helpers.”
Cashel rubbed his eyes as he thought. Sunlight and a full stomach were making him sleepy. It sure would be nice... .
“Tilphosa?” he said. “They're offering us baths in the hut there. Would you like ... ?”
“Steam baths?” Tilphosa said, frowning. “But that can't be, can it?”
She pursed her lips. “Why don't you go ahead, Cashel?” she said after consideration. “Then I'll decide.”
“Right,” said Cashel, rising with a studied control that concealed how full and stiff he was feeling. He had a flash of dizziness before the blood caught up to his brain, but it was gone as quickly as it came. “Master Twenty-second, I'd be pleased to accept.”
The girls who'd escorted Cashel to the village clustered around him again. They were childlike; but not children, very definitely young women. Cashel looked at them, then to the chief, and said, “Look, sir, are they the bath attendants? Because I'd rather—”
“Of course, Lord Cashel,” Twenty-second said. He made what seemed an idle gesture, but at once the girls disappeared into the crowd and the youths who'd guided Tilphosa stood in their place. Two of them took Cashel's hands.
“Wait,” said Twenty-second. He gestured with both hands, palms up, to Cashel's ironbound quarterstaff leaning against the hut behind him.
Cashel snatched it, feeling calmer for the touch of the smooth hickory. It was a piece of his past, of his home. Life had been hard when he grew up an orphan in Barca's Hamlet, but it was a life he knew. Almost nothing Cashel had seen since leaving home had been familiar, and even when it was good it made him uncomfortable inside. It was all confusing, whether people called him Lord Cashel and treated him like a king or when man-sized insects tried to cut him down... .
The Helpers walked Cashel straight across the courtyard. Little people who'd been kneeling to eat moments before slipped out of the way without seeming to move. They had a marvelous grace, no matter what they were doing.
Two of the youths entered the hut ahead of Cashel. He squatted, peering inside. The floor had been slightly hollowed out, and the earthen surface was sealed with the same smooth gum as the drink tumblers had been. The door was low, but Cashel could fit on his hands and knees.
“Lord?” said one of the youths.
Cashel leaned his staff beside the hut's door, then hunched forward and crawled through the doorway. The truth was, even bare-handed he'd be willing to match his lone strength against all the little folk who lived in this village. Besides, Cashel's conscious mind couldn't imagine the Helpers being any more hostile than a brood of ducklings.
A tingly, vegetable scent clung to the hut's interior. Little hands loosened Cashel's sash and drew first it, then his tunic, away from him.
The Helpers twittered cheerfully as they worked. One youth measured Cashel's biceps with his fingers, and giggled. “So big, so very strong!”
“Lie down please, Lord Cashel,” said a Helper already inside the hut. Cashel obeyed; the floor was slickly cool, pleasant after the morning of direct sun. His eyes adapted easily. Light filtered in through spaces in the flimsy roof as well as by the open door.
Cashel lay on his stomach, his head toward the door and his left cheek cradled on his crossed arms. More Helpers entered the hut, then one still outside passed in a bowl of sun-warmed water and a number of long gourds.
One youth opened the gourds with what looked like a simple twist of the dried stem. They burst outward into balls that looked more like ripe dandelions than they did the loofas Cashel was familiar with. The vegetable scent puffed out fresh and strong as each gourd opened.
A youth sprinkled water on Cashel's back and limbs. The rest of them, four or five at least, began rubbing him down with the gourds. The pods' touch was as warm and soft as raw fleece, but they made Cashel's skin tingle pleasantly.
A Helper worked his gourd over Cashel's neck and shoulders. The touch of sunburn he'd gotten sitting in the sun vanished as if he'd been daubed with lanolin.
Cashel thought about spending a few more days in the village. He and Tilphosa had only the general goal of getting back to their separate homes, not a hard deadline, but...
Though Cashel didn't know of a deadline, there might still be one; this wasn't the place either he or Tilphosa was meant to be. And despite the Helpers' generosity, Cashel knew well how slim the difference between eating through the winter and starving could be in a rural village. Tilphosa ate more than any of the Helpers did, and Cashel ate as much as a whole hutful of the little people. It wouldn't be right to stay even for a few days.
It was nice to think of relaxing for a longer period, though, and the people were so—
Tilphosa shouted.
Cashel lurched to his feet. His head smashed through the hut's roof. He tried to raise his hands to
fling away the frame of dried branches, but his arms didn't work. They felt cold—all his muscles felt cold.
Cashel's senses were clear, but he couldn't seem to move. The youths around him in the hut jabbered excitedly. A score of Helpers had brought down Tilphosa and were trussing her with Cashel's own sash torn into strips.
He tried to take a step forward. If he could walk, maybe he could work off the effect of the poison and—
He couldn't walk. He felt himself falling. He couldn't even put his hands out to take his weight, though the impact didn't hurt his numbed body either. “Duzi!” he would have cried, but his throat froze about the word.
Helpers gathered around Cashel in a circle. Twenty-second chirped quick orders. Cashel saw many tiny hands reach down to grasp him, though he couldn't feel their touch. His body swayed upward, lifted on the massed strength of most of the village.
The youths who'd been bathing him walked in front of the procession; their arms dangled loosely at their sides. The poison had been in the gourds, then. He supposed it'd wear off in time.
Cashel met Tilphosa's eyes as his body left the courtyard on scores of tiny feet. She'd been bound but not gagged. “I'll pray to the Mistress for you, Cashel,” she called.
Cashel couldn't speak in reply, but there wasn't much to say anyway. It wouldn't have helped to tell Tilphosa to save her prayers for herself, because he figured she was going to need them shortly.
The poison would wear off in time, but Cashel wasn't going to have much time. The Helpers, the whole village of them together, were carrying him down to the man-eating tree.
He was about to replace Fourteenth as the tree's meal.
Chapter Fifteen
“Iaeouoi!” Alecto concluded. She tapped her dagger point on the little fireset in the middle of the hexagram she'd scraped in the dirt.
Flame glittered. A line of smoke shot up, then bent at a right angle to drill into the undergrowth beside the two women.
Alecto muttered under her breath and leaned backward. She nodded. “There's the path, then,” she said to Ilna. “I wouldn't have known it was there to be found if you hadn't been so sure.”