“Loud and clear,” Meta’s voice rustled in his ear, inaudible to anyone but him. The output was fed as mechanical vibration into his tooth, thence to his skull and ear by bone conduction.
“Step forward,” Ahankk shouted, rudely jerking Jason from his radio-phonic communication by grabbing his arm. Jason ignored him, pulling away and walking alone towards the man in the high-backed chair. Temuchin had his head turned as he talked to two of his officers, which was for the best, since Jason could not control a look of astonishment as he realized what the throne was made of. It was a tractor’s seat, supported and backed by bound together, recoilless rifles. These were slung with leathern strings of desiccated thumbs, some of them just bone with a few black particles of flesh adhering. Temuchin, slayer of the invaders—and here was the proof.
Temuchin turned as Jason came close, fixing him with a cold, expressionless gaze. Jason bowed, more to escape those eyes than from any obsequious desires. Would Temuchin recognize him? Suddenly the nose plugs and drooping moustache seemed to him the flimsiest excuse for a disguise. He should have done better. Temuchin had stood this close to him once before. Surely he would recognize him. Jason straightened up slowly and found the man’s chill eyes still fixed on him. Temuchin said nothing.
Jason knew he should stay quiet and let the other talk first. Or was that right? That is what he would do as Jason—attempt to outface and outpoint the other man. Stare him down and get the upper hand.
But surely that was not to be expected of an itinerant jongleur? He must certainly feel a little ill at ease, no matter how snow-driven his conscience.
“You sent for me, great Temuchin. I am honored.” He bowed again. “You will want me to sing for you.”
“No,” Temuchin said, coldly. Jason allowed his eyebrows to rise in mild astonishment.
“No songs? What then will the leader of men have from a poor wanderer?”
Temuchin swept him with his frigid glance. Jason wondered how much was real, how much shrewd role-playing to impress the locals.
“Information,” Temuchin said just as the dentiphone hummed to life inside Jason’s mouth and Meta’s voice spoke. “Jason—-trouble. Armed men outside telling us to come out or they will kill us.”
“That is a jongleur’s duty, to tell and teach. What would you know.” Under his breath he whispered, “No guns! Fight them—I’ll get help.”
“What was that?” Temuchin asked, leaning forward threateningly. “What did you whisper.”
“It was nothing, it was—” Damn, you couldn’t say nervous habit in inbetween. “It is a jongleur’s . . . way. Speaking the words of a song quietly, so they will not be forgotten.”
Temuchin leaned back, a frown cutting deep lines in his forehead. He apparently did not think much of Jason’s rehearsing during an audience. Neither did Jason. But how could he help Meta and Grif?
“Men—breaking in,” her shouting voice whispered silently.
“Tell me about this Pyrran tribe,” Temuchin said.
Jason was beginning to sweat. Temuchin must have a spy in the tribe, or Shanin had volunteered information. And the dead man’s family seemed to be out for vengeance now, knowing he was away from the camp. “Pyrrans? They’re just another tribe. Why do you want to know?”
“What?” Temuchin lunged to his feet pulling at his sword. “You dare to question me?”
“Jason—”
“Wait, no,” Jason felt the perspiration beginning to form droplets under the layer of grease on his face. “I spoke wrong. Damn this inbetween tongue. I meant to say what do you want to know? I will tell you whatever I can.”
“There are many of them. Swords and shields. They attack Grif, all together—”
“I have never heard of this tribe. Where do they keep their flocks?”
“The mountains . . . in the north, valleys, remote, you know—”
“Grif is down, I cannot fight them all—”
“What does that mean? What are you hiding? Perhaps you do not understand Temuchin’s law. Rewards to those who are with me. Death to those who oppose me. The slow death for those who attempt to betray me.”
“The slow death?” Jason said, listening for the words that did not come.
Temuchin was silent a moment. “You do not appear to know much, jongleur, and there is something about you that is not right. I will show you something that will encourage you to talk more freely.” He clapped his hands and one of the attentive officers stepped forward. “Bring in Daei.”
Was that a muffled breathing? Jason could not be sure. He brought his attention back to the camach and looked, astonished, at the man on the litter that was set down before them. The man was tied down by a tight noose about his neck. He did not try to loosen the rope and escape because there were just raw stumps where his fingers should have been. His bare, toeless feet had received the same treatment.
“The slow death,” Temuchin said, staring fixedly at Jason. “Daei left me to fight with the weasel clans. Each day one joint is cut off each limb. He has been here many days. Now, today’s justice.” He raised his hand.
Soldiers held the man although he made no attempt to struggle. Thin strips of leather were sunk deep into the flesh of his wrists and ankles, and knotted tight. His right arm was pressed against the ground and one soldier made a swift chop with an ax. The hand jumped off, spurting blood. The men methodically went to the other arm, then the legs.
“He has two more days to go, as you can see,” Temuchin said. “If he is strong enough to live that long, I may be merciful on the third day. I may be not. I have heard of one man who lived a year before reaching his last day.”
“Very interesting,” Jason said. “I have heard of the custom but it slipped my mind.” He had to do something, quickly. He could hear the hammer of moropes’ feet outside, and men’s shouts. “Did you hear that? A whistle?”
“Have you gone mad?” Temuchin asked, annoyed. He waved angrily and the now unconscious man was carried out, the dismembered extremities kicked aside.
“It was a whistle,” Jason said, starting towards the entrance. “I must step outside. I will return at once.”
The officers in the tent, no less than Temuchin, were dumbfounded by this. Men did not leave his presence this way.
“Just a moment will do it.”
“Stop!” Temuchin bellowed, but Jason was already at the entrance. The guard there barred his way, pulling out his sword. Jason gave him the shoulder, sending him spinning, and stepped outside.
The outer guards ignored him, unaware of what was happening inside. Walking casually but swiftly Jason turned right and had reached the corner of the large camach before his pursuers burst out behind him. There was a roar and the chase was on. Jason turned the corner and raced full tilt along the side.
Unlike the smaller circular camachs this one was rectangular, and Jason reached and dived around the next corner before the angry horde could see where he had gone. Shouts and hoarse cries echoed behind as he raced full tilt around the structure. Only when he reached the front again did he slow to a walk as he turned the last corner.
The pursuit was all streaming off in the opposite direction, bellowing distantly like hounds. The two guards who had been at the entrance were gone and all the other nearby ones were looking in the opposite direction. Walking steadily Jason came to the entrance and went inside. Temuchin, who was pacing angrily, was aware that someone had come in.
“Well,” he shouted. “Did you catch . . . you!” He stepped back and drew his sword with a lightning slash.
“I am your loyal servant, Temuchin,” Jason said flatly, folding his arms and not retreating. “I have come to report rebellion among your tribes.”
Temuchin did not strike—nor did he lower his sword.
“Speak quickly. Your death is at hand.”
“I know you have forbidden private feuds among those who serve you. There are some who would slay my servant because she killed a man who attacked her. I have been near
her ever since this happened—until today. Therefore, I asked a trusted man to watch and to report to me. I heard his whistle, because he dared not enter the camach of Temuchin. I have just talked to him. Armed men have attacked my camach in my absence and taken my servants. Yet I have heard that there is one law for all who follow Temuchin. I ask you now to declare about this.”
There was the thud of feet behind Jason as his pursuers caught up and stormed through the entrance. They slid to a stop, piling up behind each other as they saw the two men facing each other—Temuchin with his sword still raised.
He glared at Jason, the sword quivering with the tension in his muscles. In the silence of the camach they could clearly hear his teeth grate together as he brought the sword down—point first into the dirt floor.
“Ahankk!” he shouted, and the officer ran forward slapping his chest. “Take four hands of men and go to the tribe of Shanin of the rat clan—”
“I can show you—” Jason interrupted.
Temuchin wheeled on him, thrust his face so close that Jason could feel his breath on his cheek, and said, “Speak once again without my permission and you are dead.”
Jason nodded, nothing more. He knew he had almost overplayed his hand. After a moment Temuchin turned back to his officer.
“Ride at once to this Shanin and command him to take you to those who have taken the Pyrran servants. Bring all you find there here, as many alive as possible.”
Ahankk saluted as he ran out: obedience counted before courtesy in Temuchin’s horde.
Temuchin paced back and forth in a vile temper, and the officers and men withdrew silently, from the camach or back against its walls. Only Jason stood firm—even when the angry man stopped and shook his large fist just under Jason’s nose.
“Why do I allow you to do this?” he said with cold fury. “Why?”
“May I answer?” Jason asked quietly.
“Speak!” Temuchin roared, hanging over him like a falling mountain.
“I left Temuchin’s presence because it was the only way I could be sure that justice would be done. What enabled me to do this is a fact I have concealed from you.”
Temuchin did not speak, though his eyes blazed with anger.
“Jongleurs know no tribe and wear no totem. This is the way it should be since they go from tribe to tribe and should bear no allegiance. But I must tell you that I was born in the Pyrran tribe. They made me leave and that is why I became a jongleur.”
Temuchin would not ask the obvious question and Jason did not allow the expectant silence to become too long.
“I had to leave because—this is very hard to say—compared to the other Pyrrans. . . I was so weak and cowardly.”
Temuchin swayed slightly and his face suffused with blood. He bent and his mouth opened—and he roared with laughter. Still laughing he went to his throne and dropped into it. None of the watchers knew what to make of this, therefore they were silent. Jason allowed himself the slightest smile but said nothing. Temuchin waved over the servant with a leathern blackjack of achadh, which he drained at a single swallow. The laughing died away to a chuckle, then to silence. He was his cold, controlled self once more.
“I enjoyed that,” he said. “I find very little to laugh at. I think you are intelligent, perhaps too intelligent for your own good and you may someday have to die for that. Now you will tell me about your Pyrrans.”
“We live in the mountain valleys to the north and rarely go down to the plains.” Jason had been working on this cover story since he had first joined the nomads: now was the time to put it to the test. “We believe in the rule of might, but also the rule of law. Therefore, we seldom leave our valleys and we kill anyone who trespasses. We are the Pyrrans of the eagle totem, which is our strength, so that even one of our women can kill a plains warrior with her hands. We have heard that Temuchin is bringing law to the plains, so I was sent to find out if this were true. If it is true the Pyrrans will join Temuchin. . .”
They both looked up at the sudden interruption. Temuchin because there were shouts and commands as a group of moropes reined up outside the camach. Jason because a weak voice had very clearly said Jason . . . inside his head. He could not tell whether it was Meta or Grif.
Ahankk and his warriors came in through the entrance, half carrying, half pushing their prisoners. One wounded man, drenched with blood, and his unharmed companion, Jason recognized as two of the nomads from Shanin’s tribe. Meta and Grif were brought in and dropped onto the ground, bloody, battered and unmoving. Grif opened his one uninjured eye and said “Jason,” then slumped unconscious again. Jason started forward, then had enough self-control to halt, clenching his fists until his nails dug deep into his palms.
“Report,” Temuchin ordered. Ahankk stepped forward.
“We did as you ordered, Temuchin. Rode fast to this tribe and the one Shanin took us to a camach. We entered and fought. None escaped, but we had to kill to subdue them. Two have been captured. The slaves breathe so I think they are alive.” Temuchin rubbed his jaw in obvious thought. Jason took a long chance and spoke.
“Do I have Temuchin’s permission to ask a question?”
Temuchin gave him a long hard look, then nodded agreement.
“What is the penalty for rebellion and private vengeance in your horde?”
“Death. Is there any other punishment?”
“Then I would like to answer a question of yours that you asked earlier. You wanted to know what Pyrrans are like. I am the weakest of all the Pyrrans. I would like to kill the unwounded prisoner, with one hand, with a dagger alone, with one stroke—no matter how he is armed. Even with a sword. He looks to be a good warrior.”
“He does,” Temuchin said, looking at the big, burly man who was almost a head taller than Jason. “I think that will be a very good idea.”
“Tie my hand,” Jason ordered the nearest guard, placing his left arm behind his back. The prisoner was going to die in any case, and if his death could be put to a good use that would probably be more than the man had contributed to any decent cause in his entire lifetime. Being a hypocrite, Jason? a tiny inner voice asked, and he did not answer because there was a great deal of truth in the charge. At one time he had disliked death and violence and sought to evade it. Now he appeared to be actively seeking it.
Then he looked at Meta, unconscious and curled in pain upon the ground, and his knife whispered from its sheath. A demonstration of unusual fighting ability would interest Temuchin. And that ignorant barbarian with the hint of a smug smile badly needed killing.
Or he would be killed himself, if he hadn’t planted the suggestion strongly enough. If they gave that brute a spear or a club, he would easily butcher Jason in a few minutes.
Jason did not change expression when the soldiers released the man and Ahankk handed him his own long, two-handed officer’s sword. Good old Ahankk: it sometimes helped to make an enemy. The man still remembered the thumb-twisting and was getting his own back. Jason slapped his broad bladed knife against his side and let it hang straight down. It was an unusual knife that he had forged and tempered himself, after an ancient design called the bowie. It was as broad as his hand, with one edge sharpened the length of the blade, the other for less than half. It could cut up or down or could stab, and it weighed more than two kilos. And it was made of the best tool steel.
The man with the sword shouted once and swung the sword high, running forward. One blow would do it, a swing with all of his weight behind it that no knife could possibly stop. Jason stood as calmly as he could and waited.
Only when the sword was swinging down did he move, stepping forward with his right foot and bracing his legs. He swung the knife up, with his arm held straight and his elbow locked, then took the force of the blow full on the edge of his knife. The strength of the swing almost knocked the knife from his hand and drove him to his knees. But there was a brittle clang as the mild steel struck the tool steel edge, all of the impact coming suddenly on this small area,
and the sword snapped in two.
Jason had the barest glimpse of the shocked expression on his face as the man’s arms swung down—his hands still locked tightly about the hilt that supported the merest stub of a blade. The force of the blow had knocked Jason’s arm down and he moved with the motion, letting the knife swing down and around—and up.
The point tore through the leather clothing and struck the man low in the abdomen, penetrating to the hilt. Bracing himself, Jason jerked upward with all his strength, cutting a deep and hideous wound through the man’s internal organs until the blade grated against the clavical in his chest. He held the knife there as the man’s eyeballs rolled back into his head and Jason knew that he was dead.
Jason pulled the knife out and stepped back. The corpse slid to the floor at his feet.
“I will see that knife,” Temuchin said.
“We have very good iron in our valley,” Jason told him, bending to wipe the knife on the dead man’s clothing. “It makes good steel.” He flipped the knife in the air, catching it by the tip, then extended the hilt to Temuchin who examined it for a moment, then called to the soldiers.
“Hold the wounded one’s neck out,” he said.
The man struggled for a moment, then sank into the apathy of one already dead. Two soldiers held him while a third clutched his long hair with both hands and pulled him forward, face downward, with his dirt-lined neck bare and straight. Temuchin walked over, balancing the knife in his hand, then raised it straight over his head.
With a single, galvanic thrust of his muscles he swung the knife down against the neck and a meaty chunnk filled the silent camach.
The tension released, the soldier moved back a step, the severed head swinging from his fingers. The blood-spurting body was unceremoniously dropped to the ground.
Deathworld: The Complete Saga Page 39
