Dare - rtf

by Farmer, Phillip Jose

  "Of course, if they did, they wouldn't last long. It isn't only horstels that can get their cheeks marked. Human flesh, traitor flesh, will cut just as easily. You understand?"

  Numbly, Jack shook his head. He had to declare himself either for Ed, who identified himself with the human race, or against him. And he could not do the latter. He was sickened by what had happened; he wished that Samson had not caught the scent of death and that he'd not seen the flash of the knife in the break. He would have liked to turn and run away and try to forget all about this; deny it, if possible, tell himself it had never happened, or if it had, that he had nothing to do with it. But he couldn't do that. And now. . .

  "Here, grab his leg," Ed said. "I'll take the other, and we'll drag him to the grave."

  Jack put the scimitar in its scabbard. Together, he and Ed pulled the body across the glade, its limp arms trailing behind like idle oars beside a drifting boat. Blood left a red wake on the crushed grass.

  "We'll have to clip off that grass and throw it in the grave, too," Ed spoke. He was panting.

  Cage nodded. He had wondered why Ed, a short but very strong man, had wanted him to help haul the corpse the mere thirty feet to the hole. Now he saw. His helping to bury the victim would be his share in the guilt.

  The worst of it was that he couldn't refuse to join. Not that he was forced to because he was afraid, he hastened to assure himself. He had no fear of Ed or of the vaster, if more shadowy figure behind him, the HK Society. It was just that horstels weren't human. They didn't have souls, even if they did, hair distribution apart, look like men.

  It wasn't murder to kill one, not murder in a real sense; legally, it was. But no human thought of it as actual murder. Killing a dog wasn't murder. Why should slaying one of the Wiyr be?

  There were a number of reasons why the courts considered it so. The strongest was that they were compelled to do so. The Dyonisan government had a contract that set up judicial procedure for just such man-horstel dealings. But no human should feel a sense of guilt, of having offended his God because of the dead.

  Why, then, this twisting inside himself?

  Automatically, he said, "Do you think the grave is deep enough? Wild dogs or werewolves could dig him up easily."

  "That's using your head, Jack. For a moment I thought. . . Well, never mind. Sure, the dogs can get at him. But they won't. Watch."

  He dipped into his bag and brought out a small bottle of clear fluid.

  "Nodor. It'll cover up any smell for twenty-four hours. By then the sextons will have finished him. Nothing but bones left."

  He sprinkled the bottle's contents over the corpse. The fluid spread in a thin film over the body until it disappeared.

  Ed walked around the glade, letting fall a drop or two wherever he saw blood or crushed grass. Satisfied he'd fairly well deodorized the place, he picked up the long blond bob from the ground, threw a couple of drops on it, and stuffed it into his bag.

  He said, casually, "Do you want to cover up the body?"

  Jack gritted his teeth and stood motionless for a minute. Refusal trembled on his tongue. He wanted to yell out, "Killer! Killer!" and walk away. But reason held him silent. Either he went along with Ed now, hoping for a break later on, or -- and his mind did not refuse the picture as the next plausible step, though his stomach did -- he could kill Ed and tumble his body into the hole.

  Monstrous as it seemed, that would be the only way to prevent the entanglements sure to come. He had to join the HK, or else he had to die.

  Sighing, he began scooping dirt on the body. "Hey, Jack, look at that!"

  Jack looked past Ed's extended finger and saw a sexton crouching beneath a fallen leaf. It was no longer than the knucklebone of his thumb, and its long thin nose quivered ceaselessly. Then it was gone, swifter than his eye could follow.

  "How much do you want to bet that by tonight he and his thousand brothers will have all the meat off the satyr's bones?"

  "Yes," replied Jack sourly. "And when those scavengers are through, the dirt over the bones will sink down and leave a depression. If it's noticed and he's dug up by the Wiyr, they'll know he's been mur­dered. You'd have been smarter if you'd just left the body above ground. That way, they'd have no way of telling from the bones what had happened to him. His death would be considered accidental, or at least from causes unknown. This way, they know it's mur­der."

  "You should have planned this, Jack," said Ed. "You're smart. I can see you're going to be a big asset to the society."

  Jack grunted and then said, "On second thought, that half-severed spine would give it away. Maybe it's better he's buried."

  "See what I mean? You'd have sense enough not to touch his backbone when you stabbed him. I can tell you' re going to make a great killer, Jack.''

  Jack didn't know whether to laugh or weep.

  Ed watched his tall cousin as he smoothed out the grave to make it level with the surrounding ground. He spoke harshly, as if he were trying to get something out before he changed his mind and kept it in.

  "Jack, you want to know something? I like you, but personal feelings don't enter. When I first saw you, I thought I might have to kill you, too, in order to shut you up. But you're all right. You're all human."

  "I'm human," answered Jack. He kept on working. While Ed clipped off the bloodstained grass ends, Jack carefully replaced the divots over the naked earth. That done, he rose to examine his work.

  He wasn't satisfied. If the forest-wise Wiyr got close, they'd detect the artificiality of the replaced cropgrass. The only chance to escape notice would be if the hunters overlooked the glade or if they went over it carelessly. Knowing the aborigines' thor­oughness, he did not feel easy.

  He said, "Ed, is this the first murder for you? Or for other HK members?''

  "It's not murder! It's war! Remember that! Yes, it's the first for me. But not for others. We've secretly killed two other horstels here in Slashlark County. One was a siren."

  "Have any HK members disappeared mys­teriously?"

  Ed jerked as if struck. "What makes you ask that?"

  "The horstels are smart. You think for a minute they won't figure out what's going on? And play the game themselves?''

  Ed Wang swallowed. "They wouldn't do that! They have a contract with our government. If they caught us, they're bound by their word to leave us to the human courts."

  "How many government officials are HK mem­bers?"

  "Know what, Jack? There is such a thing as being too smart."

  "Not really. What I'm getting at, though, is that the Wiyr are realists. They know that, legally, a human killer of a horstel is subject to the death penalty. They also know that, actually, it's almost impossible to convict a man in our courts on such a charge.

  "It's true that a horstel's word is his bond. But they have a clause that says that if the other party proves to be of bad faith, the contract is auto­matically broken."

  "Yes, but they have to give the other party notice."

  "True. But tension is getting high. One of these days, there's going to be a bad break. The horstels know that. Maybe they're going to organize their own HK -- the Human Killers."

  "You're crazy! They wouldn't do anything like that. Besides, no HK men are missing."

  Jack decided he was getting no place. He said, "There's a brook close by. We'd better wash. And then put on some of that Nodor ourselves. You know what a sensitive nose a horstel has."

  "Like an animal's. They're beasts of the field, Jack."

  After they'd washed themselves and smoothed out the footprints they'd made in the mud banks, they decided to separate.

  "I'll give you the word when we have our next meeting," promised Ed. "Say, what about bringing your sword to it? Outside of Lord How's, it's the only iron weapon in the county. It'd make a won­derful symbol of our organization, a sort of rallying point."

  "It's my father's. I took it without his permission when I went dragon hunting. What he'll say when I get back, I do
n't know. But I'll bet he locks it up where I can't get it again."

  Ed shrugged, smiled an unreadable smile, and said good-bye.

  Jack watched him go. Then, shaking his head like a man trying to wake himself up, he walked away.

  Walt Cage strode from the barn and through the yard. His boots stomped into the wet ground and squished as he pulled them out. The gagglers in his path fled, giving vent to a nerve-scraping cry. Away from his dangerous feet, they stopped to look with their big double-lidded blue eyes. They teetered on two long thin legs and flapped their rudimentary wings -- membranes stretched on long finger-bones -- and cocked their smear-nosed heads. The nursers gave a series of thin barks that called their chicks to feed from two swollen mammaries hanging between their legs. The egg-hens jealously bit at the nursers with tiny sharp teeth and then fled as the big cocks chased them back to their nests. Now and then, the males lunged at each other and nipped, but they didn't mean it. Their stud-fury had been watered with centuries of domestication.

  All shared a powerful odor that was a cross be­tween that of an open garbage can in the hot sun and that of a wet dog. It insulted and injured even the most tolerant nose. Serene, they dwelt in the midst of it and minded not at all.

  Walt Cage snarled "Aggh!" and spat at them. Then he felt mildly ashamed of himself. After all, the dumb brutes could not help their stench. And their meat and eggs did taste delicious and were quite profitable.

  He was headed for the front porch of his house when he remembered the mud on his boots. Kate would kill him if he tracked dirt once again into the front room. He steered toward his office. Bill Kamel, his overseer, would probably be waiting there, anyway.

  Bill was sitting in his boss's chair, smoking a pipe and resting his muddy boots on Walt's desktop. When the owner burst through the door, Bill jumped up so fast the chair fell back and onto the floor.

  "Go ahead," Walt barked. "Don't mind me."

  When Kamel made an irresolute move to pick up the chair and sit down, Walt brushed by him and seated himself, hard.

  He groaned, "What a day! I couldn't get anything done. I hate shearing unicorns, anyway. And those horstels! Always stopping to sample that new batch of wine."

  Bill coughed self-consciously and blew smoke to one side.

  "Don't worry about my smelling your breath," Walt growled. "I had a glass or two myself."

  Bill blushed. Walt leaned forward and picked up a pencil. "All right. Let's have it."

  Bill closed his eyes and began the report. "All plows are now fitted with new copperwood blades. Our agent in Slashlark says he can get one of those Hardglass blades for experimental purposes. Cheap. It should be here in about a week since it's coming by boat. They're supposed to keep their edge twice as long as the wooden. I told him you said you'd replace all our blades with them if the glass worked out like it was supposed to. . . right? And he said he'd knock off ten percent of the price if we'd recommend the blades to our neighbors.

  "The Herder of the Unicorns says the thirty foals he started working with are narrowed down to five. They might be good plowers, and they might not. You know how nervous and unreliable those beasts are."

  "Of course, I know!" said Walt Cage impatiently. "You think I've been farming for twenty years for nothing? Dyonis, how I hate spring plowing, and how I hate unicorns! Oh, if we only had an animal that could pull a plow without trying to run away every time a lark flies over and throws its shadow!"

  "The Counter of the Bees reports there's a lot of noise in the hives. He estimates we've about fifteen thousand bees. They ought to be coming out by next week. The winterhoney crop will be smaller this year because there's been more young to feed."

  "That means less money for all. Isn't anything going right?'' demanded Walt.

  "Well, next spring there'll be more honey because there've been more young this winter."

  "Use your head, Bill. Those young'll produce more young and eat up all the winterhoney. Don't tell me how big the crop's going to be!"

  "That isn't what the Counter says. He says that every third year the queens eat up the surplus brats so the honey crop'll be larger. Next year's the third."

  "Good!" broke out Walt. "I'm glad something's going to go right around here. But the taxes next year are going up, and I'll have a hard time paying a tax on a larger crop. Last year's hurt me, as it was."

  Bill looked blankly at him and continued. "The Catcher of the Larks says the egg collection will be about the same as last year's, about ten thousand. That is, unless the werewolves and the maskers in­crease, in which case we'll be lucky to get half that."

  "I knew it," groaned Cage. "I knew it, and I was depending on the egg profits to pay for the new plow blades. And buy a new carriage."

  "We don't know the collection won't be up to last year's," Bill said.

  "Listen, those satyrs sleep with Old Mother Nature. They know her as a man knows his wife. Better," added Walt, as certain doubts about his Kate came to his mind.

  "If the Catcher thinks the werewolves'll increase, they will. And that means I'll have to hire some guards from Slashlark and maybe pay for a big hunt."

  Kamel's brows rose, and he puffed angrily as he restrained himself from showing the boss how he was contradicting himself about the horstels' reliability.

  Cage's eyes narrowed as he pulled at the hairs of his thick black beard as if they were ripe thoughts to be plucked.

  "Lord How has a stake in keeping the werewolves down. Maybe he could foot the bill. If I could only drop a few words about it to him and let him mull it over until he thinks it's his own idea, he might organize one. If I didn't have to pay for food for the hunters and dogs. . ."

  He licked his lips, smiled, and rubbed his big hands. "Well, we shall see. Go on."

  "The keeper of the Orchard says the totum crop should be bigger than ever. Last year we collected sixty thousand balls. This year the Keeper estimates seventy thousand. Providing the slashlarks don't in­crease."

  "What next? Every time you tell me something, I'm a rich man in one breath and a poor in the next. Well, don't just sit there and smoke. Tell me, what does the Catcher of the Larks say?"

  Bill shrugged. "He says there should be an increase by at least a third."

  "More expense!"

  "Not necessarily. The Blind King remarked to me last night that he can get help from a nomadic group of his people, and it won't cost anything except their food and wine. And he'll split the bill with you."

  Bill paused and wondered if he should give Walt the bad news he'd been saving. He wasn't given a chance, for the boss said, "Did you check up on the Keeper of the Orchard's tally?"

  "No, I didn't think it was necessary. The Wiyr don't lie."

  His face red, Walt roared, "Of course not! Not as long as they know we'll always check up on them."

  Kamel's cheeks reflected the heat in Cage's, and he opened his mouth to reply. Then he shrugged and closed his lips.

  Walt spoke in a softer tone, "Bill, you're too easygoing. Trusting the horstels can get you in trouble."

  Bill focused his eyes on a spot above Cage's balding head and meditatively blew smoke.

  "For heaven's sake, Bill, quit shrugging every time I say something. You trying to make me mad?"

  "No. I don't have to try."

  "All right. So I asked for that. Maybe I do fly off the handle now and then. But I'm not the only one. The very air seems to quiver like a tightrope. Enough of that. What're you doing about setting a night watch for that dragon?"

  "The horstels say the dragon'll take a few unicorns and then won't be back until next year. Nobody'll get hurt as long as it's not attacked. Just leave it alone."

  Cage brought his fist down hard on the desktop. "Oh, so I'm to sit on my fat butt and watch that monster run off with my stock! You put Job and Al to building a trap."

  Bill said, "What about Jack? Maybe he's killed it."

  "Jack's a fool!" roared Walt. "I told him to wait until a hunting party was organized.
After the unicorn shearing and the spring plowing, of course. I can't spare a man or horstel now.

  "But that accursed fool, that brainless romantic idiot son of mine has to go gallivanting after something that could crush him with a flick of its tail. Why, that hulking overgrown good-for-nothing is senseless enough to attack that thing all by himself! And get his head bitten off! He will bring grief to his mother and make an old man of his father!"

  Tears ran down his cheeks and sopped his beard. Choking, half-blinded, he rose and lurched from the office. Kamel was left staring embarrassedly at his pipe and wondering when he could tell him the really bad news.

  In the washroom, Walt Cage poured out a pitcher of freshly drawn well water into a bowl and slapped water on his face. The tears quit flowing; his shoulders ceased shaking. Taking off his sleeveless jacket, he cleaned his arms and torso thoroughly.

  The mirror reflected the puffy and bloodshot eyes, but he could blame that on the little hairs floating around in the shearing shed. Bill was a good fellow and wouldn't say a word about his breaking down. Nobody else need know. It would never do for his family to find out, for then they might have less respect for him. They were getting hard enough to handle as it was. A man never cried; tears were for women. . .

  He combed his beard and thanked God he hadn't succumbed to the new foppery and shaved off his whiskers. He didn't look like a woman or a barefaced satyr. It was a fashion that indicated the insidious horstel influence.

  As he was putting on a clean flannel vest, sleeveless and tied loosely across the front so his hairy chest and belly stuck out brown and black and gray, he heard the dinner drum. He took off his dirty boots and put on clean slippers. Then he strode into the dining room and there paused to look around.

  His children were standing behind their chairs, waiting until he seated their mother at the foot of the table before they sat down. His quick green eyes took in his sons Walt, Alec, Hal, Boris, and Jim, and his daughters Ginny, Betty, Mary, and Magdalene. Two chairs were empty.