by John Norman
“I do not know,” said Tyrtaios.
“Kill it,” I said.
“Do not concern yourself.”
“Kill it,” I said.
“We are guests here,” said Tyrtaios. “Be civil.”
“Have them kill it,” I said.
“Why?” he asked.
Many Goreans, I suppose, might seem callous, heartless, or cruel to many of Earth, but they commonly, as those of Earth often do not, love their world, love growing things, trees, grass, flowers, and the world itself, the day and night, the seasons, the wind and sky, the stars, the sound of water in brooks, and live animals, birds, and such. They care for their world and the living things within it. Perhaps this is foolish, but it is a common Gorean way. Who is to say which way is best? Or does it matter? But Goreans will kill for their way.
“What is the concern of your companion?” asked the beast with the device.
“The food,” said Tyrtaios.
“What is wrong with it?” asked the beast. “We are preparing it for you. You commonly cook your food, do you not? We prefer a live kill, with the fresh blood.”
“I think,” said Tyrtaios, “he would prefer that it be killed.”
“It is said that cooking it alive improves the flavor,” said the beast. “I have heard so.”
“Have them kill it,” I said.
“It may not be their way,” said Tyrtaios.
“Kill it,” I said, “or I will.”
“No need,” said Tyrtaios. “It is dead now.”
The second beast, he not with the device, slipped the small animal from the spit.
“Your companion is correct,” said the beast with the device. “It is better undercooked, and best when raw, alive, with the racing of the blood, and the many secretions of terror flooding within its circulatory system.”
The second beast lifted the limp, hairless, burned body toward us.
I shook my head.
“Pulling the fur out, too, bit by bit, before placing it on the spit, this producing chemical alterations associated with pain, improves the flavor, as well, or so I am told,” came from the first beast, its words emerging from the device.
“You are thoughtful,” said Tyrtaios.
“We hoped to please you,” came from the device.
“We are grateful,” said Tyrtaios. “The mighty lords are generous. The hospitality of their race is legendary. Well do I recall, aforetimes, the sumptuousness of their provender. But, alas, we have now no time to feed. We must soon return to Shipcamp, lest our absence be noted.”
The beast who had offered us the food then discarded it, to the side, in the bushes. It was not, I gathered, to their taste. Or, perhaps, in its present, ruined condition it was fit only for humans.
“Do you still wish the fire?” asked the beast with the device.
“For a little time,” said Tyrtaios. “Our night vision is less acute than yours.”
The primary purpose of the fire then, I supposed, had been to mark the location of this rendezvous. One gathered that the large beasts, their eyes like dark moons, might easily negotiate terrains in which a human might find himself helpless. So, too, of course, could the sleen and larl.
“Can you trust your companion?” inquired the beast with the device. “If not, he need not leave this place.”
“Do not fear,” said Tyrtaios. “There are too few of us as it is, given your instructions. Your prescripts have been clear. Few know of these things. But some must know, else these matters cannot be pursued to fruition.”
The beast made growling noises, which seemed to me laden with menace. The sounds which emerged from the device, however, were even, and noncommittal. They might have been printed on a public board. “Reliability is best guaranteed at the point of a sword.”
“That is understood,” said Tyrtaios.
“The certification?” asked the first beast.
Tyrtaios reached within his tunic, and handed a folded paper to the beast with the device, who put the device to one side, near the fire, and perused the paper. I saw it only briefly. To me the script, which was cursive, was unintelligible, little more than claw marks, but, affixed to the paper, there were two seals, one which seemed no more than a patch of hair, interwoven with silver thread, and the other was in the script of the Pani, in which they transcribe their Gorean, much as the tribesmen of the Tahari write their Gorean in their own unusual letters, or signs. Spoken Gorean, despite differences in accent, such as those of Ar and Cos, is widely comprehensible on Gor. It is, after all, Gorean, the Language. On the other hand, many are the marks by which the same sounds might be represented. The paper seemed worn to me, soiled, and frayed, and I suspected its message, assuming it was a message, might have been framed and inscribed months ago, and perhaps faraway. The seal of hair on it, supposing it was a seal, which I took it to be, from its appearance and placement, seemed partly removed, or torn, and surely some of the silver threads had parted. Perhaps it had been conveyed to Shipcamp after a long journey, I supposed a secret journey, and had survived various perils and hardships. Certainly it seemed, from its appearance, its discoloration and staining, to have endured a variety of housings and weathers. On the other hand, the seal in the Pani script was fresh. I conjectured that that seal had been emplaced on the document recently, perhaps even earlier today.
“It is in order,” said the beast, lifting its head.
These words came from the device, now lying to one side. I thus noted two things; first, with interest, that the device, to be effective, need not be in hand, and, second, with some apprehension, that the hands, or paws, of the beast were now free. One thing was certain. The certification, or document, had now been delivered. I was not now clear what, if anything, might ensue. I was aware, very much aware, should it charge, I would not have time to unsheathe even the dagger at my belt.
“You will require humans to guard the cargo, and deliver it to the appropriate parties,” said Tyrtaios.
“Unfortunately,” said the beast.
“The noble lords cannot well share the journey of the great ship,” said Tyrtaios.
“Nor would we desire to do so,” said the beast.
“You fear the voyage will be unsuccessful,” said Tyrtaios.
“It cannot succeed,” said the beast. “None reach the World’s End, not so. The great ship is the folly of a madman, lame, half-blind Tersites. He dares dispute the will of Thassa, known for a thousand years, that none may venture beyond the farther islands. Those who have done so have never returned. The ship is great, but Thassa is greater. And she is not patient. She scorns Tersites, his vanity and presumption. She mocks the architecture of his delusions. She scorns the very wood with which he has framed his dreams. She will dismantle his vaunted, arrogant, floating city timber by timber.”
“The cargo has been loaded,” said Tyrtaios. “The certification has been delivered.”
“You now wish pay?” asked the first beast.
“Others know of the cargo,” said Tyrtaios. “If I do not return, it will be removed from the ship, and burned.”
“You have made such an arrangement?” asked the first beast.
“Of course,” said Tyrtaios.
“And you have men personally loyal to you, who will see to this?”
“Yes,” said Tyrtaios.
“I wonder if that is true,” came from the device.
“You cannot risk that it is not,” said Tyrtaios.
“Your precaution is well understood, but unnecessary,” said the beast. “You stand high in our esteem, and trust.”
Tyrtaios inclined his head, slightly.
The first beast made a sign to the second, who withdrew a small, but weighty sack from a leather container which lay near the fire.
He cast it to the feet of Tyrtaios, who did not move.
“It is tarn disks, gold, of double weight,” came from the device.
“We must return to Shipcamp, before we are missed,” said Tyrtaios. “I wish you
well.” He turned, as though to leave.
“Stop, wait,” came from the device.
Tyrtaios turned about.
“You have passed the test well,” came from the device.
The second beast then, though I think the gesture pleased him not, bent down, and, not taking his eyes from Tyrtaios, picked up the small sack. The skin on the back of my neck seemed to rise, as I saw that small sack almost disappear in the latitudinal grasp of those long, encircling, multiply jointed six digits. It was then handed to Tyrtaios, with an understated politeness that I found disconcerting. I was confident that we might not have left that small clearing alive, were it not that we were seemingly required as elements, essential elements, in some business which eluded my comprehension.
“It is a great pleasure to do business with one so astute,” said the first beast.
“I wish you well,” said Tyrtaios. He slipped the small sack inside his tunic. I was surprised he did not place it in the wallet slung at his waist. Mostly, I wished to leave this place, to make away as soon as possible.
“Wait,” said the first beast.
Tyrtaios turned back.
“Have you not forgotten something?” came from the device.
“Lord?” asked Tyrtaios.
“It is worth nothing to you,” said the beast.
“What?” asked Tyrtaios.
“Were you not entrusted with a vessel, a small vessel, constituting a celebratory draft, a gift, a reward and pledge, placing a seal on our business?”
“Ah!” said Tyrtaios.
“Did you forget?” came from the device.
“Yes,” said Tyrtaios.
“Of course,” said the beast.
“Forgive me,” said Tyrtaios.
“It is from a Home World,” said the beast. “It is rare here. Perhaps you hoped to sell it. But, greedy friend, it is worthless to you.”
“There is very little in the vessel,” said Tyrtaios.
“Did you sample it?”
“No,” said Tyrtaios.
“I doubt that it would be to your taste,” said the beast.
“The seal is unbroken,” said Tyrtaios.
“Give it to me,” said the first beast.
“To me!” said the second beast.
“My superior entrusted it to me, and, I gather, his superior to him,” said Tyrtaios.
“For us!” said the second beast.
“For the three of you, surely,” said Tyrtaios. But the third beast was not present. It had apparently gone to watch the trail.
“We two,” said the first beast. It then shut off the device, abruptly.
The two beasts then, crouched down, regarded one another, I thought balefully.
Tyrtaios reached into his wallet, and drew forth a small bottle. I feared the two beasts were to pounce upon him, given the regard in which they seemed to hold the small vessel, but they stopped suddenly, angrily, apprehensively, for, having broken the seal and removed the bottle’s stopper, Tyrtaios held it, as though to spill its contents on the ground. The two backed away, a pace, eyeing one another.
Tyrtaios pointed to the first beast, that which had managed the communication device, and held the bottle toward it. We took him, I gathered, to be first amongst the three beasts. The second growled, menacingly. Tyrtaios did not relinquish his grip on the bottle, even when the first beast seized his hand in its paws and forced the bottle to his own lips. It seemed it would drain its contents, what little there was. Tyrtaios yanked back the bottle, and a bit of the beverage splashed free. A howl of rage came from the second beast, but the first regarded Tyrtaios with fury. Tyrtaios then handed the bottle to the second beast, who with one motion threw the contents down that open, dark, fanged, spread maw. Both beasts then leapt into the air, and then crouched down, eyeing one another. The long tongues moved about their jaws. The bottle lay on its side, in the dirt, empty.
“They left none for their fellow,” observed Tyrtaios.
“Let us leave,” I said.
“Where is the third?” asked Tyrtaios.
“Out there in the darkness, guarding the trail,” I speculated.
“No matter,” said Tyrtaios. He loosened his dagger in its sheath.
“We need a lamp,” I said.
“There is light enough,” he said. “We need only reach the river.”
We then left the small clearing.
I looked behind us, and noted that the small fire had been extinguished. I gathered that it had served its purpose, marking their campsite, and that the beasts had little need of its illumination.
“When the fee was cast to the ground,” I said, “it was no test.”
“Certainly not,” said Tyrtaios. “It was a gesture of contempt, a transparent sleight, an obvious insult.”
“But the beast,” I said, “then need retrieve it himself, and did so, seething with fury.”
“We permitted it to save face,” said Tyrtaios, “pretending to accept the matter on the leader’s vaunted terms, as a test of our pride, and probity.”
“Do you think he was fooled?” I said.
“Of course not,” said Tyrtaios.
“He is dangerous,” I said.
“They are all dangerous,” said Tyrtaios.
“I do not understand the business of the certification,” I said.
“It certifies,” he said, “that the cargo was placed on the ship of Tersites, as was intended.”
“That much I gathered,” I said, “but what is involved here, what is the cargo, what is afoot?”
“I know very little about it,” said Tyrtaios, “and I gather that that is for the best.”
“Doubtless the messenger, he who delivered it to your superior, would know,” I said.
“I think not,” said Tyrtaios. “And the messenger is dead, as the others before him.”
“I do not understand,” I said.
“The certification, which was to be delivered only when the cargo was placed on the ship of Tersites, has come from faraway, perhaps from as far away as the Voltai range, and has passed from one messenger to another, each one of whom was killed after delivering it to the next.”
“They expected nothing, and were unconnected, the one with the other?” I said.
“A useful procedure for ensuring security,” said Tyrtaios.
“You delivered it boldly,” I said.
“I am needed for the success of their venture, whatever may be its nature,” said Tyrtaios.
He then, with his dagger, parted the strings which held the wallet to his belt, and cast the wallet into the brush.
I did not understand why he did this. He did not resheathe his dagger.
“Let us continue on,” I said, uneasily.
“No,” he said, “we are waiting here.”
“I do not like this business,” I said.
“It pays well,” he said.
“Why are we waiting?” I asked.
“There is no point in going further, not now,” said Tyrtaios. “It would be foolish to do so.”
“I do not understand,” I said.
“The fire at the campsite is out,” said Tyrtaios. “That will doubtless inform our third friend that we have left the site, and are on the trail.”
“So?” I said.
“So our friend will be expecting us, and, when we do not appear, he will investigate.”
“I would suppose so,” I said. “I am not eager to encounter him.”
“Unfortunately I must do so,” said Tyrtaios. “He was not with the others. I think that had not been anticipated. But no matter.”
“I understand nothing of this,” I said.
“You do recall,” said Tyrtaios, “that the beast with the speaking machine claimed to know the contents of the cargo.”
“Yes,” I said.
“The other two, as well, would be likely to know,” said Tyrtaios.
“I suppose so,” I said.
“Our friend is approaching,” said Tyrtaios.
&n
bsp; And surely, a darkness amongst darknesses, but a moving darkness, was moving toward us, a large darkness. Then the thing was before us. It stopped. It seemed uncertain. Perhaps it was puzzled, that it had not been joined on the trail. In any event, it had now retraced its path, and it stood, looming, before us. How large the thing was, and, in its way, how terrible. It growled, softly. There was no device, no speaking machine.
“Tal,” said Tyrtaios, pleasantly, and plunged his dagger into the beast’s chest.
I leaped back, and the large body fell at our feet. The blow had been unhesitant, efficient, unwavering, swift, clean, firm, deep, to the hilt, exact, powerful, a blow worthy of the dark caste itself.
I did not speak my suspicions.
Tyrtaios wiped his blade clean on the beast’s fur.
“You killed it,” I said. “Why?”
“It was necessary,” said Tyrtaios.
“What of the others?” I said.
“They are dead,” said Tyrtaios.
“The beverage?” I said.
“Precisely,” said Tyrtaios.
“And this one did not drink,” I said.
“Precisely,” said Tyrtaios.
So, I thought, there are now three fewer who know the nature of the cargo I had helped to put aboard the great ship.
“Let us return to Shipcamp,” I said.
“No,” said Tyrtaios. “We return to the camp of our friends.”
“Why?” I asked.
“On Gor,” said he, “such things are not likely to travel with an empty purse.”
“I see,” I said.
I accompanied Tyrtaios back to the clearing. We rekindled the fire, and he, on his knees, rummaged the packs of the beasts.
“Good,” he said, from time to time.
I gathered his trip was not without profit.
I regarded the bottle, fallen to the ground, in the center of the clearing. Two large bodies, contorted, lay near it.
“Do not touch it,” he said.
“I will not do so,” I said.
I recalled that he had placed the tarn disks within his tunic, not within his wallet, and that later, on the trail, he had cast the wallet away. The bottle, I recalled, had been carried in the wallet. The substance must be very powerful, I thought, so little of it, yet enough to slay two such beasts, even three. Tyrtaios, who was not a timid man, had been unwilling to keep even the wallet in which the vessel, closed as it was, had been carried.