Free Videssos Cycle, Volume 2 by Harry Turtledove Page A

overlords. The headman went down to his belly on the ground before Olbiop, as a citizen of the Empire might to Thorisin Gavras. Skylitzes’ mouth tightened at such homage rendered a barbarian of no high rank, but he said nothing.
    “We need food, sleep-place, how you say—comfort against cold,” Olbiop ordered, ticking off the points on his fingers. A colloquy in the nomads’ tongue followed. At length the Khamorth asked a question of Psoes, who nodded easily. Gorgidas resolved to learn the plains speech; he missed too much by depending on his companions to interpret.
    Psoes was still chuckling. “As if the boys’d rust, spending another night in the open. You toffs enjoy yourselves, now.” The underofficer spoke briefly to his men, who began to make camp in the village square. At their leader’s word, Olbiop’s followers joined them. The chieftain stayed with the legates.
    The headman bowed to the Videssian party. “An it please you, this way,” he said. His accent was plains-roughened, his phrasing archaic; the village was long sundered from living currents of speech in the Empire.
    The building he led them to had been a temple once. A wooden spire still topped its roof, though Phos’ golden globe had fallen from it. The roof itself was patched with thatch; hunks of sod chinked the walls, which were of rudely cut local stone. There was no door—a leather curtain hung in the entranceway.
    “Well, ’tis the guesting house. Climb you down and go in,” the village headman said, not understanding the hesitation of some of his visitors. “Your beasts will be seen to. Make free with the fire—there’s plenty to burn. I go to ready your victuals and other, ah, comforts. How many be ye?” He counted them twice. “Six, is it? Aye, well,” he sighed.
    “For your hospitality you have our heartfelt gratitude,” Goudeles said courteously, dismounting with obvious relief. “Should we need some trifling assistance, how may we address you?”
    The headman gave him a wary glance. Bluster and threats he was used to; what danger lurked behind these honeyed words? Finding none, he grudgingly answered, “I’m called Plinthas.”
    “Splendid, good Plinthas. Again, we thank you.” More suspicious than ever, the villager led their horses away. “Phos, what an ugly name,” Goudeles exclaimed as soon as he was gone. The seal-stamper went on, “Let’s see what we have here.” He sounded as if he expected the worst.
    The one-time temple had a musty smell; guests seemed few and far between. The benches that had once surrounded the central worship area were long gone—on the plains, wood was too precious to sit idle in an unused building. Nor had it known an altar for many years; in place of that centerpiece was a fire pit. Skylitzes was right, Gorgidas thought. Not even a memory of Phos remained here.
    The Videssian officer drew flint and steel from his pouch and deftly lit the central fire. The envoys stretched out at full length on the hard-packed dirt floor. Goudeles sighed with bliss. As the party’s poorest horseman, he was the most saddlesore. His soft hands were no longer merely chafed, but blistered. “Have you a salve for these?” he asked Gorgidas, displaying them.
    “I fear I packed few medicines,” the Greek replied, not caring to explain to Goudeles his reasons for abandoning the physician’s art. Seeing the Videssian’s pain though, he added, “A salve of grease and honey would soothe you, I think—you could ask this Plinthas for them.”
    “Thanks; I’ll do that when he comes back.”
    The fire suddenly flared as a fresh bundle of tight-packed straw caught. Gorgidas glimpsed a hand-sized splotch of blue paint high up on one wall. He walked over for a closer look. It was the last remnant of a religious fresco that probably once covered all the walls of the temple. Neglect, mold, soot, and time had allied to efface the rest—like the nameless village itself, the shabby ruin of a brighter