"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?
3
"Company comin, Cap'n," Mason called. "Lots of horses riding hard."
The others heard, too. Rick gestured toward the thickets by the road. There would be no room to hide the horses, though, and from the sounds, not enough time either. Tylara shouted something and Caradoc ran to his horse. He took down the leather case and withdrew a longbow, stringing it with an easy gesture that made Rick's muscles ache to watch.
A dozen horsemen rounded the bend two hundred meters away. The sight was like a blow. They were not all riding horses. Three of the beasts were centaurs. The riders wore mail armor, and white plumes streamed out from their helmets. The lead men carried lances, and they lowered them. Others drew sabers. They didn't act friendly at all.
Tylara shouted. Rick understood none of it, but he heard the word 'Sarakos' several times. She ran to Caradoc and drew his dagger, holding it as if she knew how to use it. Caradoc nocked an arrow. He thrust another into the dirt in front of him. There were only the two.
Two arrows, a short sword, and a dagger; but his new friends were obviously prepared to fight a dozen horsemen. Yanulf stood impassively by the cistern, his arms spread to the sky.
"What do we do?" Mason shouted.
Rick didn't answer for a moment. There would still be time to get into the trees. This wasn't his fight. From the uniforms, the approaching riders might be the local police. For that matter, he had no evidence that Yanulf wasn't a con man and Tylara his accomplice in the local equivalent of the badger game. He could be setting himself up as an outlaw. Probably was. And they could still run.