“Thank you,” said Smith cautiously, climbing from his cart and staring around. They were circled in an open courtyard of herringbone brick. To one side a high-vaulted hall stood, with blue smoke curling from its big central chimney. Built into the opposite wall were other long rooms: they might be storerooms and barracks for the watchmen. There was also a forge with a fire blazing, throwing on the dark wall the darker shadow of the blacksmith, who was clanging away lazily at a bit of glowing iron.
“You’d be out of Troon, Caravan Master, am I correct?” asked the Housekeeper, coming up to slap Smith’s arm heartily. He winced.
“That’s right,” he replied. “And it hasn’t been an easy trip. We’ve been attacked twice. No, three times, and lost a passenger.”
“Ah! Demons, was it?” The Housekeeper shuddered. “Horrible, horrible! But you’ll be all right here. We’re a bright speck of safety in a hostile land. Salves for your wounds and cheer for your heart. Everything for the traveler. Smithy, trading post with unique curios, dining hall with fine cuisine, splendid accommodations! Even baths. No shortage of water. You’ll dine with me, I trust?”
“Yes, thank you.” Smith glanced at the caravan, but the keymen were already wheeling the lead cart to the forge, covering the cargo and locking things down with practiced efficiency. “Hot baths for everybody first, though, I guess. Have you got a doctor here? Some of us are wounded, and there’s a Yendri passenger who’s helped out a little, but—”
“As it happens,” said the Housekeeper, lowering his voice, “Our medic is a Yendri. You won’t mind him, I promise you. Splendid fellow, knows his place, expert in all kinds of secret remedies his people use. Eminently trustworthy. Many of them are, you know. We’ve had him here for years. Never a mishap. I’ll send him to you in the bathhouse, shall I?”
The last thing Smith wanted at that moment was to have to deal with another supercilious green person, but his leg hurt badly, so he just nodded, and said, “Great.”
He was sitting in a long stone trough full of hot water, wishing it was deep enough to submerge himself, when the Yendri doctor entered the narrow stall and edged toward him. Like Flowering Reed, he was tall and regal-looking; but he wore a simple white robe and did not seem quite so superior.
“You are the wounded man?” he inquired, setting down a basket.
“It’s mostly me,” said Smith, sitting upright. “But the key-men are more important. They’ve got some bad gashes. In the name of the Unsullied Daughter, will you patch them up?”
The Yendri raised his eyebrows. “For the sake of the Unwearied Mother,” he said, laying a peculiar emphasis on the title, “they have been tended to. They asked me to see you next. You took a bolt in the leg?”
Smith nodded, raising his leg from the water. The Yendri hissed softly when he saw the bolt wound.
“This is inflamed. Dry yourself and step out to the massage table, please.”
He retreated, and Smith got hastily from the tub and toweled himself off. When he emerged from the stall, he saw that the Yendri had laid out a number of unpleasant-looking tools and bottles.
“You could just slap some salve and a bandage on it,” he suggested uneasily.
“Not if you wish to keep your leg,” the Yendri replied, helping him up on the table. Smith lay back and gritted his teeth, and for the next few minutes thought very hard about a cozy little bar in a seaside town, where from a window table one could watch blue dusk settling on the harbor and the yellow lamps blooming one after another on the ships and along the peaceful quay…
After far too long a time the Yendri was applying a bandage, and telling him, “The cut on your thorax will heal easily, but you’ll have to keep the leg elevated. Can they make a pallet for you on one of the carts?”
“I think so,” said Smith, unclenching his jaw with effort. “It was just a flesh wound. Did you really have to dig like that?”
“It had become—” The Yendri paused in tying off the bandage and looked 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.”