What could be keeping Exeter? It was jolly good to have pipped him like this, and him on his third trip, too.
The gazebo contained a comfortable chair with a book lying on it, and a wooden chest. Like the one in the vestry of St. Gall's, that chest probably held all sorts of Apparel Suitable for the Discerning Traveler. The book was heavy, leather-bound, and apparently written in Greek, but yet no Greek Smedley had ever seen. Odd! When he looked inside the chest, he found one shoe and three socks. He took two socks and put them on, but that hardly seemed adequate wear, no matter how temperate the climate.
Undoubtedly the little kiosk was a sentry box. Someone was supposed to be sitting here, reading that book, keeping watch in case visitors dropped in. The rotter had deserted his post. Having breakfast, likely.
What on Earth, real Earth, could be delaying Exeter? Had the effort of learning two keys at the same time confused him, mixing them up in his mind? Or was he so reluctant to leave Alice and return to Nextdoor that he could not summon up the correct mental attitude? Bother the man!
So what did Julian Smedley do now, poor thing?
He went to the gap in the hedge and—being extremely cautious not to expose too much of himself—peered around the edge. He looked straight into the face of a young man doing the same thing from the other side.
The other man yelled. They both jumped back in alarm.
Smedley broke into roars of laughter.
Slowly the newcomer edged into view around the hedge, one big, wide, green eye at a time. He was barefoot, wearing only a loincloth. His beard was close-cropped, while his hair hung down his back like a woman's. Both were a startling shade of copper, and his very fair skin's efforts to tan had coated him in several million freckles. He was one all-over freckle. He was also jumpy as a field full of grasshoppers, ready to flee at the slightest provocation.
He said something, but the only word Smedley caught was tyika?
"Sorry, old man! Don't speak the lingo. Got any English?"
The man nodded vigorously, still jittery, but apparently reassured. “I am speak English well, tyika!” He had a singsong accent. “My name is Dommi Basketmaker, but once Dommi Houseboy, and having hopes again to be so.” He was no older than Smedley himself, short and broad shouldered.
"I'm Captain Smedley. Dommi, you said? Weren't you bearer for, er, Tyika Exeter?"
A huge grin split Dommi's face into unequal halves, revealing a set of perfect white teeth. “Indeed I had that highly pleasurable honor a year ago, for a transitory time only. Tyika Kisster a most felicitous tyika to serve, a very benignly inclined tyika! I had been informed that his honor will be returning shortly and have had apprehension of perhaps being permitted again to serve him, which I would be most earnestly appreciative.” His joy wavered into sudden despondency. “But, alas—"
"Well, he's due any moment now.” Smedley wondered how that information could have reached Olympus ahead of him, though. “And he will be arriving in the same state of undress I am. And I am deucedly cold, to boot. Why don't you run off and dig up a couple of sets of clothes for us, soonest?"
"But...” Dommi's gaze wandered over Smedley, noting the missing hand and the gashes on his calf. “Of course, Tyika Kaptaan! At once, most imminent!” He spun around and vanished. Sounds of feet running on gravel faded into the distance. Bare feet? Ouch!
Well, that took care of clothes.
Exeter was taking a damnably long time! He had two translations to his credit already, so he ought to be able to manage another, surely. Had he changed his mind? Having seen Smedley cross first, was he going to rely on him to unmask the traitor, whether Jumbo or another? No, he would not go back on his word to Miss Pimm. Or had Schneider arrived at St. Gall's and queered the show? She had said: I don't want to have to fight my way out of here.
Smedley decided that there was nothing he could do about that. He had no idea of the return key, and he could have contributed nothing to the fight, if fight there was. He might never know what had happened after he left.
He might have to introduce himself to the Service, instead of being recommended by Edward Exeter, Liberator. Should have brought his curriculum vita. Damn! That could be unpleasant. He'd have to talk about the war. Well, one day at a time...
He should have asked Dommi to bring some breakfast. His mouth was watering. He sniffed. Mm. Yes, there were definite hints of meat in the all-pervading smoke. Perhaps someone was roasting an ox on that bonfire? Or frying bacon.
Curiosity took him back to the gap in the hedge. He peered again, and this time there was no other face advancing to meet his. As he had suspected, the other hedge was just a screen across the entrance, providing privacy. The gravel path curved out of sight and his view was blocked by shrubbery and tall trees. They were not English trees, but a tree was a tree anywhere. Some of the colors were a bit off.
He looked the other way.
A body sprawled on the path about twenty feet away, but there was no doubt that it was dead. It had been hacked to pieces. Hair and clothes were unrecognizable, black with dried blood, and he could not tell whether it had been a man or a woman. He could hear insectile buzzings even at that distance. A couple of things like feathered squirrels were chewing at it.
He looked beyond. Smoke drifted up from the remains of a house, a black field of ruin. He retched at the memory of the odors that had made his mouth water. In the background, amid the trees, other houses smoked, many other houses, all razed. Black specks on the ground might well be other bodies. Olympus had been sacked.
A few men were moving around, and although they were far off, he could see that they were not dressed like Englishmen. They were dressed like Dommi, meaning virtually undressed. The natives had risen against the tyikank. It was Nyagatha all over again.
Now one of the savages had learned that there was a tyika who had been missed. Dommi had not gone to fetch clothes, he had gone to fetch his friends, with assegais or machetes or whatever they used to kill white men ... tyikank ... Dommi was as white as Smedley, but he was a native, and there could be no doubt what had happened here yesterday, or perhaps the day before.
Smedley was alone, naked, penniless, and friendless on a strange world where he could not speak the language and the native population was out to kill him.
He really ought to have settled for Chichester.
He ought to disappear into the woods as fast as he could move.
But what if Exeter arrived as soon as he left?
How long until Dommi and his pals arrived?
Somebody screamed, but Smedley did not think it was him.
54
EDWARD EXETER WAS THRASHING LIKE A LANDED FISH IN THE MIDDLE of the grassy enclosure. He kept on screaming.
Smedley ran over to him and knelt down, having to ward off flailing arms and legs. He shouted a few times, but it did no good. In a few moments, though, the paroxysms grew quieter. Exeter subsided into a twitching heap. His muscles kept knotting and unknotting horribly, and he cried out every time.
"Exeter? It's me, Smedley. Anything I can do to help?"
Anything I can do to shut you up?
Exeter's eyes were closed. He was obviously trying not to move. “Julian?” he whispered. “Hold me."
Hold him? He was a man, dammit! And neither of them had any clothes on. With distaste, Smedley lay down behind him and tried to put an arm around him. All he did was set off another riot of cramps and spasms, and more shrieks of pain.