Ware looked at her out of the corner of his eyes as she stared after the creature, rather taken aback. She had feared many things; it seemed that the worst these creatures could be bothered to greet them with was contempt.
Ware seemed to feel the same astonishment and resentment. "So friendly," he drawled, in a voice heavy with irony. "Do you know, I believe I prefer the Pacha."
She managed a smile; Faro chuckled.
"For once, demon," the slave said, "I believe I agree with you."
Before they had traveled a league, Xylina had grown heartily weary of being the object of so much unpleasant attention. The inhabitants of this place-which, she had learned, was called "Sylva"-seemed to treat her and her expedition as a kind of circus-cavalcade of freaks, when they were not regarding them as if they were some kind of unreasoning beasts.
The inhabitants, dressed in a myriad of odd, brightly-colored costumes that displayed their sexlessly beautiful bodies as if they were pleasure-slaves, gathered curiously beside the road as they made their way along it. Everywhere the result was the same, the natives pointing and making comments in their own tongue, which was a singsong affair that reminded her of the chanting of priestesses.
And from the laughter that most of those comments elicited, she was fairly certain that none of them were flattering.
The men were just as uncomfortable under this scrutiny as she was; the column drew close together, as if to minimize the amount of time anyone would have to spend under those critical blue eyes.
Every one of the inhabitants looked like every other; even the children were no more than miniature copies of the adults. Xylina had the uncanny feeling that she was traveling through a land of cast-clay dolls: beings as sexless and identical as the cheap toys sold for boy-children in the marketplaces of Mazonia. As she continued to pass these creatures, she became aware of something else as well- none of these beings showed any signs of aging. Their faces were all unlined and placid; their hair the same white-gold, with no threads of gray. That unnerved her further; were these creatures immortal?
It was difficult to tell time with so much of the sky covered by branches, but the hints of deepening shadows gave her the notion that it might be time to call a halt. Accordingly, she began to watch for one of the clearings the first Sylvan had told her of.
She soon found one: it seemed to have a well with a hand-pump and a long trough for water beneath the elaborate spout. That was something of a relief; at least there would be real water for drinking and cooking, and they would not need to use the stale stuff in their water-casks.
She directed the expedition to begin making camp, and took her mule off to one side to picket it for the night. Ware joined her, and for once she welcomed the demon's company. He seemed far more human than any of these creatures.
While they were unsaddling, one of the Sylvans, its mask-like face actually creased with a faint frown, approached them with a hint of aggression in its posture.
"What are you doing with these poor, gentle beasts?" the Sylvan demanded. "Why are you torturing them like this? What gives you the right to treat them like slaves, exploit and abuse them?"
Since Xylina's mule was cropping the grass with every evidence of content, she could not for a moment imagine what the creature was talking about. And as for rights-an animal could not reason, and had no responsibilities, so how could it have rights? Didn't having rights also mean that you had to take on responsibilities too?
"I'm afraid I don't understand you," she said carefully. "Could you be a bit more specific?"
"Why are you forcing these helpless creatures to bear you on their backs?" the Sylvan asked angrily. "Why are you forcing them to pull your wagons?"
Xylina blinked at it. "They're horses," she said finally, as if speaking to a child. "They're mules. I feed and care for them; they earn that by serving me. It's their job."
That seemed to enrage the Sylvan further. "You are not content with enslaving your own kind, but you must torture and oppress even the poor animals, who are utterly helpless to resist you! They cannot escape your unwelcome attentions, they can do nothing to protect their freedom! You oppress them, and they must bear with whatever you choose!" it exclaimed, putting one hand protectively on the shoulder of Ware's stallion. "I demand that you-"
What the Sylvan was about to demand, Xylina never discovered, for at that moment, Ware's horse, a high-tempered beast who did not suffer the hand of anyone but his master upon him, reacted. With a squeal of rage he whipped his head about on his long flexible neck, and sank his huge white teeth into the Sylvan's shoulder.
The Sylvan screamed and jerked free, its clothing torn and bloody, its shoulder lacerated. It fell into Xylina's mule, who laid his ears back, and with a joyous look on its face, kicked with all his might.
The Sylvan flew through the air and landed in an undignified heap several cubits away. A dozen or so of its fellows gathered about it, and helped it, weeping, to its feet. Surrounded by horrified Sylvans, it limped off into the darkness.
Ware looked at Xylina with suppressed laughter in his eyes. "I suppose we should punish the beasts, but-"
"Oh no," she replied, strangling her own mirth. "No, that would only confirm our barbarous natures in their eyes. After all, the poor, helpless beasts cannot defend themselves against us."
Ware turned his attention back to unsaddling his horse, but his shaking shoulders told Xylina that he was silently laughing.
They finished picketing their animals, and went to fetch the mules from the wagons. Faro brought his own mule to the picket-line, and was accosted halfway there by yet another Sylvan. Xylina was near enough to overhear every word it said.
It looked at his riding-breeches, boots, and light leather armor with disdain, standing directly in his path so that he could not avoid a confrontation with it. "Murderer!" it said. "Do you know how many poor, helpless animals died so that you might flaunt their skins on your back?"
Xylina saw Faro's face go blank; he looked very stupid at that moment, and she knew from experience that he was about to respond with something as scathing as possible.
Then he smiled; Xylina recognized that smile. It was the same one with which he had greeted his attackers in the street. That seemed a lifetime ago! "As a matter of fact," he replied jovially, "I do. I killed them all myself. It was great fun. Would you step out of my path, or would you care to become a tunic?"
The Sylvan's mouth worked silently for a moment, as it tried to deal with Faro's reply. As it stood there, face twisted with distress, the slave reached forward and lightly pinched a fold of the skin of its arm between his thumb and forefinger.
"You'd make a very nice tunic," he said helpfully. "Gloves, too, I think. Although I doubt you'd put up enough of a fight to make it entertaining. Still, my mule has acquired a taste for man-flesh since I've had him-and you look soft and sweet. I think you'd please him."
That was too much for the Sylvan, who fled in terror.
They were not disturbed for the rest of the evening.
Ware had plans for this evening that he preferred Xylina not know about. He waited until Xylina had set up the camp, using her magic to create a barrier-wall between her people and the prying eyes of the Sylvans. He knew why she was doing this, although she had said nothing to him or to Faro. It was not for protection, so much as to preserve some semblance of privacy, and he heartily agreed with her. In all his experience, he had never encountered people quite like these, and he feared that they were impolite and impolitic enough to march directly into the encampment for more of their lectures, if they were not held out by a physical barrier.
He wanted to discover a few things about these people on his own, and thought that he might best do so if he could get away from the rest of the party.