at him. "Hm. Let me explain it like this: There are tiny demons who feed on wounds. They're so tiny you can't see them, but they can get into a cut and make you very, very sick, do you understand?"
Smith thought it sounded like the most idiotic superstition, but he nodded. "Tiny demons. All right. What's keeping my leg up supposed to do?"
"Well, there are--hm--tiny warriors in your heart, you see? And they'll do battle with the demons if they can get to them, but if you constrict the--hm--the river of your blood so they can't row their tiny warships along it--" The Yendri, observing Smith's expression, threw his hands in the air. "Let's just say you need to keep off your feet and rest, will that do? And perhaps it won't scar too badly."
"I'm too old to care about scars," said Smith, rubbing his leg.
"You're fortunate, then," said the Yendri, eyeing him critically. "Given the number you've got. You're a mercenary, I take it?"
"Have been," Smith replied warily.
"You've survived a great deal. You must be sensible enough to follow a doctor's advice." The Yendri bundled up his instruments.
"I'll do my best," said Smith. "Thank you. Thanks for being polite, too. Flowering Reed sounded like he hoped I'd die, even when he was putting on the bandage."
The Yendri looked at him sharply. "Another of my people treated you?"
"He's one of our passengers."
"Hm. Would that be where you learned the expression 'Unsullied Daughter,' by any chance?"
"Yes. I thought it was something we had to say so you'd treat us."
"No," said the Yendri quietly. "Any true follower of the Lady in question must heal the sick and the wounded, whether or not they invoke Her name. And regardless of who they are. Good evening, Caravan Master."
He took his basket and left. Smith pulled on his clothes and limped out of the bathhouse. It was twilight, with one star in a purple sky above the red walls, and the firelight from the forge threw his tottering shadow out black beside him as he made his way across the courtyard to the high hall.
"Caravan Master!" cried the Housekeeper, descending on him with a drink in either hand. "Come, sit with me. Your bath was enjoyable, yes, and you've had your leg seen to? Excellent. You'll enjoy a complimentary beverage and our unique regional cuisine while relaxing around the blazing warmth of our fire."
"Sounds wonderful," said Smith dazedly.
He let himself be led to a seat by the central fire pit, and sank into it with a grateful sigh, as a drink was pressed into his hand. Utter bliss. His state of euphoria lasted until he took a sip of his drink.
"What--what's this?" he gasped, turning to the Housekeeper in disbelief.
"That's our special acorn beer," said the Housekeeper, a little defensively. "It's made nowhere else. We don't even brew enough to export."
"It's very unusual," said Smith.
"You'd really like it if you had a chance to get used to it," the Housekeeper told him. "It has a marvelous subtle complex bouquet."
Like a burning barn, thought Smith. He swirled the flat sour stuff, and said, "Delicate carbonation, too."
"Exactly," the Housekeeper said, and drank heartily. "None of your nasty gassy flatlands ale!" He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and leaned toward Smith with a gleam in his eye. "Though I'm always interested in news from the flatlands, you understand. We've got almost everything here--fresh air, fine water, radiant health--of course it's a little dismaying at first, always looking over one's shoulder at the, er, mountain up there, but one soon grows used to that--still, we're a little out of touch, I have to admit. Almost miss the flatlands, sometimes."
"Really," said Smith, having another mouthful of his beer in the hope that it would improve upon acquaintance. It didn't.
"Yes," said the Housekeeper, staring into the fire. "Not so much at this time of year--the forest isn't so bad, the leaves look like flames now, and soon the branches will be bare so you can see things, good clean
Smith thought it sounded like the most idiotic superstition, but he nodded. "Tiny demons. All right. What's keeping my leg up supposed to do?"
"Well, there are--hm--tiny warriors in your heart, you see? And they'll do battle with the demons if they can get to them, but if you constrict the--hm--the river of your blood so they can't row their tiny warships along it--" The Yendri, observing Smith's expression, threw his hands in the air. "Let's just say you need to keep off your feet and rest, will that do? And perhaps it won't scar too badly."
"I'm too old to care about scars," said Smith, rubbing his leg.
"You're fortunate, then," said the Yendri, eyeing him critically. "Given the number you've got. You're a mercenary, I take it?"
"Have been," Smith replied warily.
"You've survived a great deal. You must be sensible enough to follow a doctor's advice." The Yendri bundled up his instruments.
"I'll do my best," said Smith. "Thank you. Thanks for being polite, too. Flowering Reed sounded like he hoped I'd die, even when he was putting on the bandage."
The Yendri looked at him sharply. "Another of my people treated you?"
"He's one of our passengers."
"Hm. Would that be where you learned the expression 'Unsullied Daughter,' by any chance?"
"Yes. I thought it was something we had to say so you'd treat us."
"No," said the Yendri quietly. "Any true follower of the Lady in question must heal the sick and the wounded, whether or not they invoke Her name. And regardless of who they are. Good evening, Caravan Master."
He took his basket and left. Smith pulled on his clothes and limped out of the bathhouse. It was twilight, with one star in a purple sky above the red walls, and the firelight from the forge threw his tottering shadow out black beside him as he made his way across the courtyard to the high hall.
"Caravan Master!" cried the Housekeeper, descending on him with a drink in either hand. "Come, sit with me. Your bath was enjoyable, yes, and you've had your leg seen to? Excellent. You'll enjoy a complimentary beverage and our unique regional cuisine while relaxing around the blazing warmth of our fire."
"Sounds wonderful," said Smith dazedly.
He let himself be led to a seat by the central fire pit, and sank into it with a grateful sigh, as a drink was pressed into his hand. Utter bliss. His state of euphoria lasted until he took a sip of his drink.
"What--what's this?" he gasped, turning to the Housekeeper in disbelief.
"That's our special acorn beer," said the Housekeeper, a little defensively. "It's made nowhere else. We don't even brew enough to export."
"It's very unusual," said Smith.
"You'd really like it if you had a chance to get used to it," the Housekeeper told him. "It has a marvelous subtle complex bouquet."
Like a burning barn, thought Smith. He swirled the flat sour stuff, and said, "Delicate carbonation, too."
"Exactly," the Housekeeper said, and drank heartily. "None of your nasty gassy flatlands ale!" He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and leaned toward Smith with a gleam in his eye. "Though I'm always interested in news from the flatlands, you understand. We've got almost everything here--fresh air, fine water, radiant health--of course it's a little dismaying at first, always looking over one's shoulder at the, er, mountain up there, but one soon grows used to that--still, we're a little out of touch, I have to admit. Almost miss the flatlands, sometimes."
"Really," said Smith, having another mouthful of his beer in the hope that it would improve upon acquaintance. It didn't.
"Yes," said the Housekeeper, staring into the fire. "Not so much at this time of year--the forest isn't so bad, the leaves look like flames now, and soon the branches will be bare so you can see things, good clean
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