Janissaries

2

The road was excellent. It reminded Rick of the old Roman roads he'd seen in Europe; cobblestones placed over enough rock fill to prevent settling. From the wear on the stones, the road had been there a long time, centuries at least. Unlike Roman roads, though, this one wound through the low hills and trees. Roman military roads had been unfailingly straight no matter what obstacles were in the way.

The trees and underbrush were strange, but they didn't seem particularly alien; no stranger than Africa had been when he first went there. There were no birds — at least he'd seen none — but twice he saw flying squirrels. At least, he thought, they look like the pictures of flying foxes in my old schoolbooks. I never saw a real one on Earth.

Gwen walked beside him, still keeping her distance.

"You decided to come with me. Do you have any-" Rick cut himself off and lowered his voice. "There's someone behind us," he said. They looked back to the last bend but saw nothing. Rick motioned Gwen off the road and into the trees. They took shelter in the underbrush. Rick held the rifle in readiness. Whoever was coming was making no attempt to be silent; footsteps clattered on the cobblestones.

Corporal Mason came around the bend. He stopped and looked ahead, then very carefully slung his rifle and held out his empty hands. "Cap'n," he called.

"In here," Rick said.

"Yes, sir. Figured you'd hear me comin'. Just didn't want to get shot."

Rick led Gwen back to the road. He slung his rifle, but made certain the strap on the shoulder-holstered pistol was released. "What brings you here?"

"About a dozen of us volunteered to come off with you, but Parsons and Elliot wouldn't let 'em. Elliot said it was all right for one of us, so we cut cards for it, and here I am."

"Flattering," Rick said. And, he thought, just possibly believable. It was also believable that Parsons had sent someone to finish him off. Parsons was a careful man.

Parsons might do that, but Mason wouldn't take that job. There were some who might, but not Mason. Rick suddenly realized that he was glad to see the plucky little corporal. At least he had one friend to watch his back in this strange place. "Welcome aboard," Rick said. "But you might want to explain-"

Mason spat in the dirt. "Parsons is a Foreign Legion type," he said. "The Legion uses up men. I've known some mercs who put in five with the Legion, and no thanks."

"Is Parsons likely to be looking for you as a deserter?" Rick asked.

"It's possible," Mason admitted. "It was Elliot said it was all right to take off, but maybe he didn't ask Parsons first."

"And probably didn't tell him later," Rick added. Another complication. "We'd better watch our backs."

"More reasons than one," Mason said. "There might be some others want out of Parsons's chickenshit outfit."

"Maybe we should wait and see," Gwen said. "But-" she looked thoughtful. "You wouldn't want too many."

"Why?"

She shook her head. "Woman's intuition-"

"Bat puckey. You've hinted a couple of times that you know things I don't. Isn't it time to let me in on the secret?"

"No. It's not time." Gwen was very serious.

"When will it be?"

"I don't know. But I do point out that as long as the men might run away to join you, you'll be a threat to Parsons."

"So I hide from him-"

"It's not that," she said. "Look, you won't kill him from ambush. But if he decides to kill you, you won't even know until he's done it. The only way you'll be safe from him is if he doesn't know where you are."

It made sense. It didn't sound very manly, but it made sense. Rick said so.

"There's another thing," she said.

"Yeah?"

"If the Shalnuksi traders learn where you are, they'll tell Parsons-"

"That's what really concerns you, isn't it?" Rick asked. "You don't want the Galactics to find you. Why?"

"Does it matter? You won't be trading with them. You can't possibly manage to grow those drugs alone-"

"Drugs?"

"I'll explain later. Rick, you won't be trading with them. It's certainly better for us if Parsons can't find us. All I'm suggesting is that we don't call attention to ourselves. Get out of this part of the country, and don't leave traces of where we've gone. Doesn't that make sense?"

"I suppose-"

"That's all I'm asking."

"It's enough. We don't even know where we're going. For that matter, we'll be out of rations soon enough. I saw what might have been a deer-"

"It probably was. There were a lot of Earth animals released here."

"Damn it, you're doing it again! What else do you know that might save our lives?"

She didn't answer.

They rounded another bend. There was a crossroads marked by a small thatch-roofed shelter whose roof drained into a stone cistern and watering trough. The side road was dirt, heavily rutted with cart tracks and the prints of shod horses, but deserted at the moment.

Mason inspected the cistern. Leaves floated on top of the water. "We trust this stuff?" he asked.

"We'll have to eventually, and we'll want to start drinking local water while we're still pumped up with gamma globulins and the other shots we got-but I think we can wait a day or so until we've got a permanent base. Got purification tablets?"

"Yeah. I'll use them. Hand me your canteen."

They filled the canteens while Rick thought about their situation. The main road would have more traffic, but it would also be easier going. Not far down the side road he could see patches of water and mud.

"Horses comin'," Mason said. He pointed back the way they came.

"Off the road," Rick ordered. He led them into the trees beyond the crossroads.

There was a click as Mason released the safety on his H amp;K battle rifle. "They're slowin' down," he said softly.

"If they don't want trouble, we don't," Rick said. Two horses came into view. One carried an elderly man in yellow robes. There was a blue circle with a stylized thunderbolt across it sewn to the breast of the robe. The other horse was ridden double. The rider in front wore kilts and an iron cap, and carried a short sword slung at his left side. The other was cloaked and hooded. They stopped at the crossroads, and the other robed man swung down easily and led his mount to the watering trough, first pausing to bow to the stone heap.

The other two dismounted.

Gwen stared interestedly. "Notice the reverent gesture," she whispered. "Hermes. Guide of the Dead. He was originally a god of crossroads. Evidently he hasn't lost that function here."

The second rider threw back the hood and removed the cloak. Mason gave a nearly inaudible whistle. "That's a looker!" he whispered.

Rick gestured for silence. Mason was right. The girl was young-about twenty, Rick would guess, with long raven-black hair. Even at this distance her eyes were startlingly blue. She had a classic Scandinavian shape to her face, and the woolen frock she wore would have brought a high price at Magnin's. Only the kilted rider seemed armed, and Rick examined his weapons carefully. A leather case was fastened to the saddle; from its shape, it probably held a longbow. Otherwise there were no missile weapons. The man's sword was quite short. He also carried a dagger about the size of Rick's Gerber Mark II combat knife.

"This may be a good chance to talk to the locals," Rick said.

"They'll probably think we're horse thieves," Gwen warned.

"So we stay away from their horses. Mason, don't start anything unless there's no other choice. And keep an eye out back the way we came. Just in case."

"Sure."

"Not just for Parsons," Rick said. "The girl looks nervous, and they all keep looking back. And notice how lathered those horses are. They didn't stop because they wanted to. Okay, let's go make contact with the locals."

The girl saw them first. She pointed and the younger man went toward his horse.

"Sling arms, Mason," Rick ordered. He spread his empty hands. "Gwen, can you tell them we're friends?"

"The last languages I was able to study from Tran were six hundred years old," she said. She raised her voice. "Amid. Fibs. Zevos. No, dammit, that doesn't get through. Rick, bow to the stone heap. At least that will show we're religious."

"Right. You too, Mason. And keep your hands clear."

"Yes, sir."

Reverence to a stone heap. It did seem to have a beneficial effect. The others watched them warily, but they did nothing as Rick came closer.

The kilted warrior stared at Rick in frank curiosity. He eyed the slung rifle as if aware that it was a weapon. He seemed very interested in the scabbarded Mark II which hung hilt-down from Rick's suspender webbing.

The older robed man dipped water with a gourd and held it out to them.

Rick hesitated, thinking of the various amoebic life-forms that probably inhabited the unpurified water.

"He's a priest," Gwen said. "Blue sky and thunderbolt. Zeus? Jupiter?"

The priest nodded in comprehension. "Yatar."

"It really is," Gwen said. She seemed delighted. "Zeus Pater, the Sky-father. See, blue for the vault of the sky, and the thunderbolt-"

Rick let the priest hand him the gourd, gulped hard, and drank, hoping that when the inevitable happened it wouldn't be at an inconvenient time. "You carrying wine, Mason?" he asked.

"Yes, sir."

"Hand it here."

Mason took the plastic liter flask from his belt. "Wine," Rick said. "Uh — vino."

The priest looked interested, and said something to his companions. They looked interested, too.

Rick tilted up the bottle and drank a swallow. It wasn't wine at all, but Scotch. Now what have I done? he thought. The others were gesturing toward the girl, and she held out her hand expectantly.

Rick handed her the bottle. "Strong. Fuerte. Not much. Uh-take it easy-"

The girl drank, looked startled, then drank again, slowly. She didn't seem shocked, which meant they must have some kind of distillation here. She said something which Rick took to be thanks.

"Cap'n, no wonder they wanted her to have a drink," Mason said. "The back of her dress is all bloody."

"Yeah? Have a look, Gwen-"

"If she'll let me," Gwen said. "Keep an eye on her boyfriend." She went over to the girl. "Permiso? Uh, medico." She tapped herself on the breast. "Magister?"

"Magistro?" the girl said. She looked at Gwen with what seemed to be respect and stood still while Gwen tried to peel back the blouse. "Good Lord!" she muttered. "Rick, someone's abused this child badly."

Child, hell, Rick thought. "How?"

The girl reached up and unbuttoned the front of her dress and slipped it off her shoulders, leaving her back and breasts bare. Apparently they didn't believe in modesty here-at least not for the upper body. It was hard not to stare at the nearly perfect figure. She evidently didn't usually go without clothing, though; she had no tan at all.

She also had no objection to Rick looking at her, and he went over to examine herback. Someone had beaten her badly. Her back was a mass of bruises, and twice whatever had beaten her had flayed open the skin. It was going to scar. He took out his first-aid kit. "Know much about this?" he asked Gwen.

"No." She looked mildly ill.

"Better let me, then." He took out a swab. "Got to clean this and it's going to sting. Gwen, watch her boyfriend." He tapped himself on the chest. "Magistro," he said. "Medico." She winced when the swab touched the wound, but she didn't cry out. Rick painted it with Merthiolate and put a loose gauze bandage over the broken skin areas. "No tetanus inoculations," he warned. "Make sure you don't cut air off from the wounds. Better to risk aerobic infection. With all the horse crap on the roads, there's a high tetanus risk." He stepped away. "All right, you can cover yourself again." He gestured to show what he meant. "And have another drink. You earned it."

The girl smiled tentatively, then downed another slug of Scotch. She tapped herself on the chest.

"Tylara do Tamaerthon, Eqetassa do Chelm."

"You get that, Gwen?" Rick asked.

"I think so. Eqetassa. That's right out of old Mycenae. If I'm not mistaken, she's a countess. If that's right, her name would be Tylara and she's from that place with the guttural sound."

"Tylara," Rick said. The girl nodded happily. He pointed to himself. "Rick Galloway, Captain of mercenaries." If long names indicated high rank, he didn't want to claim to be a peasant.

"Rick," Tylara said tentatively. She pointed to the robed priest. "Yanulf, sacerdos pu Yatar." The priest bowed. She pointed again. "Caradoc."

"Latin and Greek all mixed up with Mycenaean," Gwen said.

"Mykenae?" the priest asked. He pointed to them. "No." Gwen shook her head. The priest frowned. The kilted man took out a currycomb and began working on the horses. He glanced warily back at Rick and Mason from time to time, but didn't seem excessively suspicious.

An auspicious beginning, Rick thought. And that girl! Were all the women on this planet as lovely?