“You fight feud with rats?”
“Never!” Jason answered, offended by the suggestion.
Shanin seemed satisfied, and went back to picking his teeth. “We go to Temuchin, too,” he said indistinctly around his finger. “I have heard Temuchin strikes against the mountain weasels so we join him. You ride with us. Sing for me tonight.”
“I hate mountain weasels, too. I’ll sing tonight.”
At a grunted command the three men wheeled and galloped away. That was all there was to it. Jason’s party followed and slowly caught up with the moving column of moropes, swinging in behind them so that their herd of goats did not mix with the others.
“That’s what all the goat leads are for,” Jason said, coughing in the cloud of dust that hung heavy in the air. “As soon as we stop I want you two to secure all our animals so they can’t get lost in the other herd.”
“Aren’t you planning to help?” Meta asked, coldly.
“Much as I would love to, this is a male-orientated, primitive society and that sort of thing just isn’t done. I’ll do my share of the work out of sight in the tent, but not in public.”
It was a short day, which the disguised off-worlders appreciated, because the nomads reached their goal, a desert well, early in the afternoon. Jason, saddle-sore and stiff, slid td the ground and hobbled in small circles to work the circulation back into his numb legs. Meta, and Grif, were rounding up and tethering the protesting goats, which induced Jason to take a walk around the camp to escape her daggerlike glances. The well interested him; he came to look and stayed to help. Only men and boys were gathered here since there seemed to be a sexual taboo connected with the water. This was understandable, since water was as essential to life as hunting ability in this semiarid desert.
A rock cairn marked the well, which the men removed to disclose a beaten iron cover. This was heavily greased to retard its rusting, though the covering rocks had cut through the grease and streaks of oxidation were beginning to form. When the cover had been lifted aside, one of the men thoroughly greased it again on both sides. The well itself was about a meter in diameter and impressively deep, lined with stones so perfectly cut and set that they locked into place without mortar. They were ancient and much worn about the mouth, grooved by centuries of use. Jason wondered who the original builders had been.
Getting the water out of the well was done in the most primitive way possible by dropping an iron bucket down the shaft, then pulling it up again with a braided leather rope. Only one man at a time could work at this, straddling the well head and pulling the rope up hand over hand. It was tiring work and the men changed position often, standing about to talk or to bring the filled waterskins back to their camachs. Jason took his turn at the well, then wandered back to see how the work was coming.
All the goats had been tethered, and Meta and Grif had the iron camach frame erected while they struggled to drag the cover into place. Jason contributed his mite by hauling their lockbox from the pile of gear and sitting on it. Its tattered leather cover disguised the alloy container inside, secured with a lock that could only be opened by the fingerprint of one of the three of them. He plucked at the twostringed lute, that he had made in frank imitation of the one he had seen the jongleur use, and hummed a song to himself. A passing tribesman stopped and watched the camach being erected. Jason recognized the man as one of the riders who had intercepted them earlier and decided to take no notice of him. He plinked out a version of a spaceman’s drinking song.
“Good strong woman, but stupid. Can’t put up a camach right,” the tribesman said suddenly, pointing with his thumb.
Jason had no idea what he should say, so he settled for a grunt. The man persisted, scratching in his beard while he admired Meta.
“I need a strong woman. I’ll give you six goats for this one.”
Jason saw that it was more than her strength that the man admired. Meta, working hard, had taken off her heavy outer furs, and her slim figure was far more attractive than the squat and solid ones of the nomad women. Her hair was neat, her teeth unbroken, her face unmarked or scarred.
“You wouldn’t want her,” Jason said. “She sleeps late, eats too much. Costs too much. I paid twelve goats for her.”
“I’ll give you ten,” the warrior said, walking over and grabbing Meta by the arm and pulling her about so he could look at her.
Jason shuddered. Perhaps the tribeswomen were used to being treated like chattels, but Meta certainly wasn’t. Jason waited for the explosion, but she surprised him by pulling her arm away and turning back to her work.
“Come here,” Jason told the man. He had to break this up before it went too far. “Come have a drink. I have good achadh.”
It was too late. The warrior shouted in anger at being resisted by a mere woman and, with his bunched fist, struck her over the ear, then reached to pull her about again.
Meta stumbled from the force of the unexpected blow and shook her head. When he pulled at her this time she did not resist but spun about, bringing up her arm at the same time. The stiffened outer edge of her hand caught him across the larynx, almost fracturing it, rendering him voiceless. She stood, ready now, while the man doubled over, coughing hoarsely and spitting up blood.
Jason tried to spring forward, but it was over before he had taken a single pace.
The warrior’s fighting reflexes were good—but Meta’s were even better. He came out of the crouch, blood streaming down his chin, with a knife in his hand, swinging it up underhand in a wicked knife-fighter’s thrust.
Meta clutched his wrist with both her hands, twisting at the same instant so that the knife went by her. She continued to twist, levering the man’s arm up behind his back, exerting bone-breaking pressure so that the knife dropped from his powerless fingers. She could have left it at this, but because she was a Pyrran she did not.
She caught the knife before it touched the ground, straightened and brought it slanting up into the man’s back, below and inside his rib cage, sinking it to the hilt so the blade penetrated his lung and heart, killing him instantly. When she released him he sank, unmoving, to the ground.
Jason sank back onto the lock-box and, as though by chance, his forefinger touched the keying plate and he felt the click as the bolt unlatched. A number of onlookers had watched the encounter and a hum of astonishment filled the air. One woman waddled over and picked up the man’s arm, which dropped limply when she released it. “Dead!” she said in an astonished voice and looked, wonderingly, at Meta.
“You two—over here!” Jason called out, using their own “tribal” tongue that the crowd would not understand. “Keep your weapons handy and stand close. If this really gets rough, there are gas grenades and your guns in here. But once we use them we’ll have to wipe out or capture the entire tribe. So let’s save that as a last resort.”
Shanin, with a score of his warriors behind him, pushed through the crowd and looked unbelievingly at the dead man. “Your woman kill this man with his own knife?”
“She did—and it was his own fault. He pushed her around, started trouble, then attacked her. It was just self-defense. Ask anyone here.” There was a mutter of agreement from the crowd.
The chief seemed more astonished than angry. He looked from the corpse to Meta, then swaggered over and took her by the chin, turning her head back and forth while he examined her. Jason could see her knuckles go white but she kept her control.
“What tribe she from?” Shanin asked.
“From far away, in the mountains, far north. Tribe called the . . . Pyrrans. Very tough fighters.”
Shanin grunted. “I never heard of them.” As though his encyclopedic knowledge ruled them out of existence. “What’s their totem?”
What indeed, Jason thought? It couldn’t be a rat, or a weasel. What kind of animals had they seen in the mountains? “Eagle,” he announced, with more firmness than he felt. He had seen something that looked like an eagle once, circling the high peaks.
“Very strong totem,” Shanin said, obviously impressed. He looked down at the dead man and stirred him with his foot. “He has a morope, some furs. Woman can’t have them.” He looked up shrewdly at Jason, waiting for an answer.
The answer to that one was easy. Women, being property themselves, could not own property. And to the victor went the spoils. Don’t let anyone ever say that dinAlt was not generous with secondhand moropes and used furs.
“The property is yours, of course, Shanin. That is only right. I would never think of taking them, oh no! And I shall beat the woman tonight for doing this.”
It was the right answer and Shanin accepted the booty as his due. He started away, then called back over his shoulder. “He could not have been a good fighter if a woman killed him. But he has two brothers.”
That meant something all right, and Jason gave it some thought as the people in the crowd dispersed, taking the dead man with them. Meta and Grif finished erecting the cover on the camach and carried all of their goods inside. Jason dragged in the lockbox himself, then sent Grif to tether the goats closer in, near their moropes. The killing could lead to trouble.
It did, and faster than Jason had imagined. There were some thuds and a shrill scream outside and he raced for the entrance. Most of the action was over by the time he reached it.
A half dozen boys, relatives perhaps of the dead man, had decided to exact a little revenge by attacking Grif. Most of them were older or bigger than he, so they must have planned on a quick attack, a beating, and a hasty retreat. It did not work out quite as they had originally planned.
Three boys had grabbed him, to hold him securely while the others administered the drubbing. Two of these now lay unconscious on the ground, since the Pyrran boy had cracked their skulls together, while the third rolled in agony after having been kneed in the groin. Grif was kneeling on the neck of the fourth boy while attempting to break the leg of the fifth by twisting it up behind his back. The sixth boy was trying to get away and Grif was reaching for his knife to stop him once and for all before he made his escape.
“Not the knife!” Jason shouted, and helped the survivor on his way with a good boot in the coccyx. “We’re in enough trouble without another killing.”
Scowling, deprived of his pleasure, Grif elicited both a shrill scream, with an extra ankle-twist, and a choked groan from under his grinding knee. Then he stood and watched while the survivors limped and crawled from the area of combat. Except for a rapidly blackening eye and a torn sleeve he was unhurt himself. Jason, speaking calmly, managed to get him inside the camach where Meta put a cold compress on his eye.
Jason laced up the entrance and looked at his two Pyrrans, their tempers still aroused, stalking around as though still looking for trouble.
“Well,” he said, shrugging his shoulders, “no one can say that you don’t make a strong first impression.”
VIII
Though they had, the swords of
lightning
Die they did in countless
numbers. Arrows flight
did speak to strangers,
bidding them to leave our pastures . . .
“I speak with the voice of Temuchin, for I am Ahankk his captain,” the warrior said, throwing open the entrance to Shanin’s camach.
Jason broke off his “Ballad of the Flying Strangers,” and turned slowly to see who had caused the welcome interruption. His throat was getting sore and he was tired of singing the same song over and over. His account of the spaceship’s defeat was the pop hit of the encampment.
The newcomer was a high-ranking officer, that was obvious. His breastplate and helm were shiny and undented, and even set with a few roughly cut jewels. He swaggered as he walked, planting his feet squarely as he stood before Shanin, his hand resting on his sword pommel.
“What does Temuchin want?” Shanin asked coldly, his hand on his own sword, not liking the newcomer’s manner.
“He will hear the jongleur who is called Jason. He is to come at once.”
Shanin’s eyes narrowed to cold slits. “He sings for me now, when he is through he will come to Temuchin. Finish the song,” he said turning to Jason.
To a nomad chief all chiefs are equal and it is hard to convince them differently. Temuchin and his officers had plenty of experience and knew all the persuasive arguments. Ahankk whistled shrilly and a squad of heavily armed soldiers with drawn bows pushed into the camach. Shanin was convinced.
“I am bored with this croaking,” he announced, yawning and turning away. “I will now drink achadh with one of my women. All leave.”
Jason went out with his honor guard and turned towards his camach. The officer stopped him with a broad hand against his chest. “Temuchin will hear you now. Turn that way.”
“Take your hand from me,” Jason said in a low voice that the nearby soldiers could not hear. “I go to put on my best jacket and to get a new string for this instrument because one of these is almost broken.”
“Come now,” Ahankk said loudly, leaving his hand where it was and giving Jason a shove.
“We will first visit my camach, it is just over there,” Jason answered, just as loudly. At the same time he reached up and took hold of the man’s thumb. This is a good grip at any time, and his 2G hardened muscles added the little extra something that made the thumb feel like it was being torn from the hand. The officer writhed and resisted, pulling at his sword clumsily, crosswise, since it was his sword hand that Jason was slowly rending.
“I’ll kill you with this knife that is pushed against your middle if you draw your sword,” Jason said, holding the lute under his arm and pressing the bone pick into Ahankk’s stomach. “Temuchin said to bring me, not kill me. He will be angry if we fight. Now—which do you choose?”
The man struggled for another moment, lips drawn back in anger, then released his sword. “We shall go to your camach first so you can dress in something more fitting than those rags,” he ordered aloud.
Jason let go of the thumb and started off, turned slightly sideways so he could watch the officer. The man walked beside him calmly enough, rubbing his injured thumb, but the look he directed at Jason was pure hatred. Jason shrugged and went on. He had made an enemy, that was certain, yet it was imperative that he go to the tent.
The trek with Shanin and his tribe had been exhausting but uneventful. There had been no more trouble from the relatives of the slain man. Jason had utilized the time well to practice his jongleur’s art and to observe the customs and culture of the nomads. They had reached Temuchin’s camp and settled in over a week ago.
“Camp” was not an apt description, because the nomads were spread out for miles along the polluted, refuse laden stream they called a river. The biggest river, apparently, in the entire land. Since the animals had to compete for the scant forage, a good deal of territory was needed for each tribe. There was a purely military camp in the center of all these settlements but Jason had not yet been near it. Nor was he in a hurry to. There was enough for him to observe and record on the outskirts before he would be sure enough of himself to penetrate to the heart of the enemy. In addition to the fact that Temuchin had once seen him, face to face, and he appeared to be the kind of man who would have a good memory. Jason’s skin was darker now, and he had used a pileating agent to hurry the growth of a thick and sinister moustache that hung almost to his chin on both sides of his mouth. Teca had inserted plugs that changed the shape of his nose. He hoped it would be enough. Yet he wondered how the war chief had heard—and what he had heard—about him.
“Rise, awake,” he shouted throwing open the flap of his camach. “I shall go before the great Temuchin and I must dress accordingly.” Meta and Grif looked coldly at Jason and the officer who had followed him and made no attempt to move.
“Get cracking,” Jason said in Pyrran. “Rush around and look like you’re impressed, offer this elegant slob a drink and stuff like that. Keep his attention off me.”
Ahankk took a drink, but h
e still kept a wary eye on Jason.
“Here,” Jason said, holding the lute out to Grif. “Put a new string on this thing, or make believe you are changing it if you can’t find one. And don’t lose your temper when I shove you, it’s just part of the act.”
Grif scowled and growled, but otherwise reacted well enough when Jason bullied him off to work with the lute. Jason shed his jacket, rubbed fresh grease into his face and a little onto his hair for good measure, then opened the lockbox. He reached in and took out his better jacket, palming a small object at the same time.
“Now hear this,” he called out in Pyrran. “I’m being rushed to see Temuchin and there is no way out of it. I’ve taken one of the dentiphones and I’ve left two more on top. Put them on as soon as I’ve gone. Stay in touch and stay alert. I don’t know how the interview is going to turn out, but if there is any trouble I want us to be in contact at all times. We may have to move fast. Stick with it, gang, and don’t despair. We’ll lick them yet.”
As he slipped into the jacket he screamed at them in inbetween. “Give me the lute—and hurry! If anything is disturbed or there is any trouble while I am gone, I will beat you both.” He stalked out.
They rode in a loose formation, and perhaps it was only accidental that there were soldiers on all sides of Jason. Perhaps. What had Temuchin heard and why did he want to see him? Speculation was useless and he tried to drop the train of thought and observe his surroundings, but it kept creeping back.
The afternoon sun was low behind the camachs when they approached the military camp. The herds were gone and the tents were arranged in neat rows. There were troops on all sides. A wide avenue opened up with a very large, black camach at the far end, guarded outside by a row of spearmen. Jason did not need any diagrams to know whose tent this was. He slid from his morope, tucked the lute under his arm, and followed his guiding officer with what he intended to be a proud but not haughty gait. Ahankk went in front of Jason to announce him, and as soon as his back was turned Jason slipped the dentiphone into his mouth and pushed it into place with his tongue. It fitted neatly over his upper back molar, and the power would be turned on automatically by contact with his saliva. “Testing, testing, can you hear me?” he whispered under his breath. The microminiaturized device had an automatic volume control and broadcast anything from a whisper to a shout.
Deathworld: The Complete Saga Page 38
