Come Twilight by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro Page B

again.”
    “And you are angry because of it,” said Sanct’ Germain.
    “Not angry: disappointed,” Rogerian allowed.
    “For that I am truly sorry,” Sanct’ Germain said before he started down the second street; this one was slightly narrower than the first, and the stone houses huddled together like a flock seeking companionship and warmth. They had the look of sudden desertion about them.
    “Mind how you go,” Rogerian called after him.
    Sanct’ Germain nodded, although he knew that Rogerian could not see this. He kept his senses alert and his thoughts marshaled to the exploration he had undertaken: there was a mounted whetstone in front of one of the houses, Roman in design, which told Sanct’ Germain that this place had not remained wholly isolated while the Romans held the region. This, he told himself, was an excellent sign. He hoped that if he found an inhabitant, they could understand one another well enough to converse, for if they could not, he had no doubt that he would have to move on. The whole village still had the faint odor of humanity about it; the occupants had not been gone more than two or three days at most. A half-dozen steps farther along the street he came upon a vat lying on its side. Stopping beside it, he was aware of the penetrating savor of olives.
    A half-open door flapped in a sudden gust of wind; the sound made Sanct’ Germain jump as he realized that there was something moving inside the house; this was confirmed by a soft clatter, as if a chair had been overset. “Is someone there?” he called out first in the Visigothic dialect and then in Latin. “Is anyone there?”
    His question was met by a whimper and a low cry that made Sanct’ Germain move forward hurriedly, for he could tell that the voice that made the sound was human, and that the human was in distress. He took his Greek dagger from its sheath as a precaution just as he crossed the threshold into the dark interior of the house.
    The house consisted of two rooms separated by a large stone fireplace open on the front and back, flanked by plank walls, with a loft above the far chamber. There was a long table in the nearer room, with a long bench drawn up beside it. Two chests, standing open and empty, were against the west wall, mute testimony to the abrupt departure of the household; a basket that had once contained bread lay on its side and open on the floor. On the far side of the hearth eight cooking pots hung on brass hooks, showing the residents had some wealth. Sanct’ Germain stood facing the fireplace, listening intently. Finally he heard a soft moan coming from the loft.
    “Are you ill? Are you hurt?” Sanct’ Germain called out, beginning in Latin this time, and repeating in the language of the Visigoths.
    “Ill,” said the voice in Latin, panting with the effort of talking; the voice was low and cracked, more a croak than speech.
    Sanct’ Germain was already looking for a ladder to gain access to the loft. “I will come up to you.”
    There was a silence, and then the voice spoke again. “I . . . I have . . . a knife.”
    “A knife?” Sanct’ Germain hesitated as he picked up the ladder that lay beneath the loft. He wondered briefly how long the ladder had lain there, and if the person in the loft had been trapped there because of it: or had it just been kicked over, and that was the sound that had attracted his attention? “I will not hurt you; I mean you no harm.”
    “I . . . have . . . knife,” the voice repeated.
    “You need help,” Sanct’ Germain said as he put the ladder in place. “I am going to climb up to you. I will not hurt you.”
    “. . . knife . . .” the voice breathed.
    Sanct’ Germain went up the ladder slowly, talking as he went, hoping to reassure the person in the loft, “My bondsman and I came here on our way toward Tolosa. The main road is not passable, and we were told that there was another way. It led to this place. We found the village empty. People and