Mistress of the Catacombs (37 page)

Toster had nothing to be ashamed of. Telling him so would only make his embarrassment worse, though.

"Yes, I'm Thalemos bor-Laminol," the youth said. "Actually, what I wanted to do, sir, is introduce myself. And thank you for saving my life."

He smiled shyly and added, "Saving my life several times that I know of."

"I'm Garric or-Reise," Garric said. "Or you can call me Gar, as the Brethren do."

He looked away as though to survey their surroundings. Thalemos as a person made quite a decent impression. The trouble was that when Garric looked closely at the youth, he saw instead Tint's terror-contorted face as she leaped toward the snake that would kill her.

"I, ah...," Thalemos said. "Master Garric, I won't keep you from your duties but, ah, I'm very grateful."

In a rush he added, "Metron wanted me to go through the portal immediately. I refused to go until you were ready, sir."

Garric met the youth's eyes and managed to smile. "Because you thought Metron might not bother waiting for the rest of us if you were clear?" he said. "I'm glad that possibility occurred to you, milord. And that you chose to act on it."

The strange forest was alive with sounds, none of which proceeded from an obvious source. Most of the notes were very low, more in the order of trembles felt through the ground than ordinary noises.

Vascay came over to Garric and Thalemos. He nodded toward Metron, the only member of the group still on the ground, and said to both men, "Is he all right?"

With a quirked smile he added to Thalemos, "And if he's not, do you know what we do next?"

"He'll come around, I guess," Garric said. Metron hadn't moved from where he lay initially, but he'd clearly relaxed. "The art—wizardry—takes a lot out of people."

He stretched mightily, noticing kinks in muscles where he hadn't expected them. He added, "So do other things, of course. I'll be feeling this day's work tomorrow."

Garric grinned and—as King Carus would have—added, "Assuming I'm feeling anything tomorrow, of course."

A sound like that of a cicada, immensely magnified, came from the side where the giant grass gave over to oak-thick briars reaching immeasurably skyward. Metron rose to one elbow, looking in that direction. Garric touched the hilt of his sword, remembering that he hadn't sharpened the blade after the hard service it'd seen carving through the serpent's scales and spine.

The call sounded again, measurably closer. The bandits bunched instinctively, readying their weapons. "Chief, something's coming!" Ademos said.

"Form a line between me and Gar," Vascay said calmly. "Stay close but don't get in each other's way. Hame, you watch our back. This may all be a trick."

He walked to the side, placing himself on the projected left end. Garric drew his sword and strode to a spot ten or a dozen double-paces to the chief's right. One of the grassblades, so large that Garric's spread arms would barely span it, rose behind him. He supposed it'd protect his back, though if the animals living in this place were on a scale with the vegetation....

The call sounded a third time. A creature holding a tube with a plunger like an elongated butter-churn stepped into sight twenty feet from Garric. It was six-limbed and chitinous, but it stood upright like a short man. It stopped when it saw the humans. Toster raised his axe in both hands and stepped forward.

"No!" cried Metron. "These are our allies. They'll guide and protect us for the rest of the way."

Two more of the creatures minced out of the forest to join the first. These wore gorgets of beaten gold. They didn't speak. Could they speak?

"Wizard, what are you playing at?" Vascay shouted. "Do you think I don't recognize them? They're the Archai! They're the monsters that brought down the New Kingdom after Prince Garric died on Tisamur!"

"Yes, they're the Archai," Metron said, walking forward shakily. "But that's all in the past, Master Vascay. They're with us against the Intercessor, now. We can't succeed without their help."

Garric looked from the wizard to the gang's chieftain. For the moment he felt nothing, nothing.

He couldn't have died on Tisamur: he'd never been on Tisamur in his life. But....

"Against the Intercessor?" Vascay said, stalking toward the wizard in the center of the line. His peg dug into the soft ground, causing him to limp. "Of course they're against the Intercessor, you fool! It was the Intercessor that kept the Archai from sweeping over Laut as they did all other islands of the kingdom! What are you thinking of?"

"That was a thousand years ago," Metron said, facing Vascay but not raising his voice. "That was a different age, Master Vascay. We have the future of Laut and of the Isles to consider now. And our own future as well."

He made a spreading gesture. The sapphire winked on his middle finger. "How do you propose to get out of this place? For myself, I know of no way save through the Archai's help... and even then it will be hard, and very dangerous."

The Archa with the tube held it high with one of his middle arms, balancing the upper portion between the saw-edged top limbs. The creatures didn't carry weapons, but their limbs alone were designed to kill.

He—She? It?—jerked down on the plunger. The tube vibrated another raucous shriek. Prada cocked a javelin, in reflex rather than as a conscious threat. Vascay touched the man to calm him.

"Well, Master Vascay?" Metron said, letting a sneer of superiority creep into his tone. "What shall it be?"

"Chief?" said Hame. Vascay looked at him.

"It wasn't these bugs as killed my wife," Hame said. "It was Protectors did that."

Vascay swore into the empty forest, quietly but with a tone and viciousness that Garric hadn't expected to hear from that man's lips. He looked at Metron again.

"All right," Vascay said resignedly. "They're our allies. Now what?"

"It's already in hand, dear man," the wizard said unctuously. "Our transportation is coming now."

"Chief?" Halophus called. "The ground's shaking!"

"It's all right!" Metron said. "This is all planned!"

"By the Lady!" said Thalemos, standing near Garric but a comfortable distance behind and to the left. Since the youth didn't have a weapon, he properly kept back from the line of armed men. "What is that monster?"

It was twenty feet high and walked on more many-jointed legs than Garric could see or imagine. Most of the creature's squirming body was still hidden in the forest when the blunt head halted behind the trio of Archai; it must be hundreds of yards long. Two immense, multi-faceted eyes covered most of the front; the mouth parts seemed small for the great body. A net of gold chain gleamed like a saddle blanket on the upper surface.

"It's a millipede," Garric said. He was glad to have Thalemos to answer; otherwise he'd have been talking to himself, because he needed to get the words out. "That's all it is, a big millipede. They don't bite or sting, they're harmless."

The bandits edged closer together in the giant creature's presence. They weren't seeking so much protection as feeling the need of companionship in the face of the unimaginable. Mersrig had one of the Protectors' sturdy spears. He clutched it in both hands and seemed to be steeling himself for a rush.

Garric strode forward, putting himself in front of the party. He could smell the millipede, now; the millipede or the Archai themselves. There was a slight astringence, an acid odor similar to that of sour wine.

"It won't hurt us!" Garric said to the Brethren. "They eat compost, that's all!"

It could step on them, of course; that would be as lethal as being in a collapsing building. But there were many ways a man could die....

There were more Archai on the millipede's back, looking down over the smooth black curve of the armored segments. Their heads were triangular and expressionless.

Garric turned to the wizard. "What do we do now, Master Metron?" he asked.

"Do?" said Metron. "Why, mount our steed, of course, my boy. Under my guidance and protection, it will carry us to our destination."

One of the Archai on the millipede's back let down a ladder with center-hung wooden rungs on a chain of gold links. It clanged and clattered against the calcified segments of the creature's shell.

Toster grabbed a rung, then looked back at Vascay. "Yes, go on!" the chief said. "What choice do we have?"

Toster started climbing. Another man took the ladder behind him; the whole band drifted into line to follow. The wizard smirked.

"Master Metron?" Garric said, smiling and speaking in a voice that only Thalemos was close enough to overhear.

"Yes, my boy?" Metron said.

"I'm not your boy, Master Metron," Garric said, still wearing the deceptive smile. "I may be your ally, but I'm not your friend. And I'd like you to keep one thing in mind as we proceed."

The wizard's expression hardened. "Yes?" he said.

"People have died tonight over this business," Garric said. "Some of them were people I liked a lot more than I do you. And if I ever decide that you're sneering at my friends, either the dead ones or the living—I'll kill you. Whatever that does to anybody's plans. Do you understand?"

"Yes," said Metron curtly.

"That's good...," said Garric with a smile. His body was trembling with emotions and memories. "Because part of me would really regret it afterward. But it would be afterward, you see."

He gestured to the ladder. Vascay, the last of the Brethren, was climbing it. "Go on up, Master Metron. Thalemos and I will follow."

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, "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 olives 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—was 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 too nice to be most of the people he'd met thus far in his lifetime too. 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 any place 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 Helper 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 any more, 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 work day 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 iron-bound 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.