Ruins (Pathfinder 2)

“When you two boys are through playing word games,” began Loaf.

“Are we in a hurry?” asked Rigg. “I’m enjoying being out of Vadeshfold, and I don’t think the world will end while we Fling Puns.”

“Since you’re so much stronger than a human now, Loaf,” said Umbo, “perhaps you’d care to pull up the tree so we can get at the yahoos inside it.”

“Trees are sacred,” said Loaf. “I never disturb them if I can help it.”

“They’re also very heavy,” Umbo pointed out.

“They’re also deeply attached to the ground,” said Rigg. “Let’s leave the trees where they are, and deal with the people. I’ve been thinking through as many languages as I can get into my head, saying, ‘Greetings, yahoo, I’m from Ramfold.’ If I can come up with a language where ‘yahoo’ feels like a native word—”

“Don’t bother,” said a voice from the tree. He spoke a language Umbo had never heard spoken, but thanks to the Wall, he understood it at once. “This is the language you want. Yahootalk is mostly grunts and clicks and farts and belches.”

“So . . . I’ve been speaking it my whole life,” said Umbo.

Param chuckled, but Umbo couldn’t be sure if she was appreciating his humor, or taking his irony at face value.

“Who are you?” asked Loaf, “and why are you throwing doo-doo at us?”

“Are you really from Ramfold?” asked the timorous voice.

“You already know who we are,” said Rigg. “Stop pretending and come down here and talk to us.”

A long moment of silence.

“Would you mind terribly if we put on clothes before coming down out of the tree?”

“We’d prefer it,” said Loaf. “Take all the time you need. Empty your bowels and wash your hands. Put yourselves out.”

“How did you decide they were pretending?” asked Umbo.

“Humans are never going to lose language. There’s no reason for it,” said Rigg. “Whether they’re working hard or not, they’ll talk because that’s what humans do. So this nonsense of grunting is obviously false.”

“Obvious to you,” said Umbo.

“It’s obvious to you, too,” said Rigg, “or you’d be arguing with me.”

Everybody thinks they know everybody’s inner life, thought Umbo. But we’ve only known Loaf since Rigg and I stopped by their inn on the way to Aressa Sessamo. None of us really knows anything at all about each other’s motives and what’s going on in our unconscious minds. Nobody ever does.

Two fully clothed, diminutive people leapt lightly down from the tree. They bowed deeply. “Sorry for using you as a trial run for our social experiment,” said the woman, in fluent whatever-the-language-was. “We don’t get a lot of traffic through the Wall.”

“I’m betting we’re the first ever,” said Umbo.

“We have a solvent that will get the stain out of your shirt,” said the man.

“How about not throwing turds in the first place?” said Umbo.

The man sighed. The woman laughed. “I don’t think our disguise is really all that effective,” she said.

“Oh, it made me want to scrub my own skin off,” said Umbo. “If that was your goal—”

“You got here sooner than we expected,” said the woman. “So we weren’t sure it was you.”

“Who do you think we are?” asked Loaf.

The man handed Umbo a clean shirt that seemed to fit well enough. The fabric was smooth and comfortable; the shirt was light in weight, yet very warm.

“You’re Loaf, a soldier-turned-innkeeper-turned-bodyguard,” said the woman. “And you’re wearing one of Vadesh’s nasty little parasites. One of the boys is Rigg and the other is Umbo. The girl is Param, who should be heir to the Queen-in-the-Tent. And, not least, King Knosso’s right-hand boy, the scholar Olivenko.”