“Last night at Hrissihr, I was thinking you’d need most of today to complete. I didn’t expect we might leave so soon. Thank you.”
“With the trouble we’ve had here, they might not let us leave.”
“Trouble?” Foord asked, carefully. “What trouble?”
“An incident in a bar with two of our crew. Cyr’s dealing with it. It’s always an incident in a bar, isn’t it?”
“Where is Cyr now?”
“She’s at Swann’s offices.”
“Tell me what you know, now.”
“Two of our crew got called names in a bar. There was a fight, the others got hurt, Cyr took our two aboard and isn’t releasing them. It does happen every time, doesn’t it, Commander?”
“Get Cyr to call the moment she returns from Swann. If I haven’t heard in thirty minutes I’ll check in again.”
A clattering and hissing and squealing as two more landchariots passed them going the other way. A sickening jolt as they crashed through a pothole. The driver swore, the whip flew and crackled electrically, and they hurtled on.
•
“Why have we stopped?”
It was an hour later. The road was wider, the gradient shallower, and Sakhran landchariots heading up into the Irsirrha were more frequent. The forest still towered over the road on both sides, however, and they had seen nobody except Sakhrans.
“Why have we…”
“The team have to be rested and watered, Commander.”
“Fine, then let’s get out.”
“We’ll only be here a few minutes.”
“Half an hour, you said earlier.”
“No, we’ll be going sooner than that.”
“Nevertheless, I’m getting out.”
“I wouldn’t advise it, Commander.”
“Why?”
“There may be trouble here.”
“Tell me about it outside.”
They stepped out into a large forest clearing where the road from the Irsirrha crossed two others. It was full of landchariots, of Sakhrans hissing and chimaera squealing; of wheels foundering in mud, smoke from damp wood fires, the sodden flapping of canvas and hammering of tent-pegs.
With a sudden vicious blow at the leader’s chest their driver smashed the harness from his team, whereupon they lumbered over to a pothole full of muddy water, drank, and settled; this, apparently, amounted to resting and watering. The driver had already turned his back, pointedly, and stalked off to sit alone on a dead tree-trunk some distance away. He unsheathed his claws at another Sakhran who was doing no more than amble past.
“What is this place, anyway?” Foord demanded.
“It’s the last gathering-place before the lowlands, Commander.”
“Gathering-place? Sakhrans, gathering?” Foord was surprised to hear himself speak so sourly. He put it down to discomfort from the journey: cramp, and a throbbing headache.
“These are hunting-parties, Commander, from Hrissihr and from some of those smaller places you saw on the way down. They come here to exchange news and trade carcases.”
“They appear to be doing little of either. They look like they hate each other. Their chimaera look like they hate each other.”
“Then perhaps they’ve just come together to reaffirm it, Commander.”
They walked across the sullen clearing, between groups of Sakhrans whose expressions were unreadable, past tents and fires, and around landchariots festooned with carcases, mostly of giant wild relatives of chimaera. Other carcases hung from poles, heads lolling, or sat in heaps in the mud ready for flensing. Many had throats cut. Some were partly eaten.
“Anything here remind you of the Charles Manson, Thahl?”
“I’m not sure I understand, Commander.”
“Oh, you know, this comradeship”—again, Foord was surprised at his own sourness—“this golden glow of social intercourse.”
Thahl glanced at him but did not reply.
They sat down on a tree-trunk, the wood of which was damp and rotten and teeming with white grubs. Foord’s throbbing headache was getting worse.
“So what’s about to happen here, Thahl? And why didn’t you warn me earlier?”
“I only suspected it as we drew in, Commander.”
The throbbing had become louder and more pronounced, almost loud enough to be an external noise.
Thahl stood up. So did most of the other Sakhrans. They looked like they were smelling the air, but Foord recognised it as their posture for listening.
He suddenly realised there was an external noise.
“Thahl, what’s going on? What’s that…”
Thahl had relaxed slightly; he turned an expressionless gaze on Foord.
“I know what it is now, Commander. But it’s too late to leave, and it could still be dangerous. Please stay close by me.”
Three military groundcars entered the clearing. They settled with a low whine and disgorged twenty soldiers who set about moving Sakhrans away from the centre of the glade. They carried only light sidearms and behaved with impeccable courtesy. Their demeanour was carefully low key, and although well drilled, they seemed to have been chosen for their non-threatening appearance; they were of average build with regular features, definitely not Special Forces like those Foord had seen in Blentport.
At the edge of the clearing, coming up the road from the lowlands, loomed the source of the throbbing background noise: three tracked military lowloaders carrying enough equipment to erect a large scanner emplacement and several particle beam and missile units. The throbbing was due to the heavy muffling of their engines, which were now idling as they waited—Foord gasped when he realised this—to move into the centre of the clearing.
“Thahl! I thought you said the military never came into the highlands. There’s going to be murder here.”
“I don’t think so, Commander. But please stay close.”
Slowly, carefully, the soldiers made a space for themselves in the centre of the clearing. Their patience and diplomacy were remarkable; they persuaded the Sakhrans back, easing their way with smiles and thanks, requesting space with gestures carefully drained of sudden movement, speaking softly and politely, treading as if on broken glass. There were only twenty of them; any one Sakhran, armed or unarmed, could easily have killed five or six, and there were nearly seventy Sakhrans. But Sakhrans together were less than Sakhrans individually. Foord had often read about it, but this was the first time he had ever seen it demonstrated, and he was astonished. He glanced at Thahl and thought, Is this is what you lost? Did a book make you like this?
It was over in a few minutes. Twenty men, chosen by someone very cleverly, had persuaded seventy Sakhrans to move aside and allow the Commonwealth to make its first military entry into the Sakhran highlands in two hundred years.
The Sakhrans stood singly, or in twos and threes, and watched the lowloaders lurch into the clearing. Foord let out a breath and walked back to the landchariot with Thahl, who gestured to the driver. By the time they were inside, the main scanner emplacement had been mostly erected and the particle beam and missile units were being unloaded. Smithson could not have done it much better.
“They were very good,” Foord said.
“Yes, Commander. I was afraid you might be endangered, but they handled it well.”
Foord looked askance at Thahl, a gesture he had learnt from Thahl himself.
“You’re more Worrier than Warrior.”
“It keeps you alive, Commander…and I think we’ll see more of this as we get closer to the lowlands. I think I know what these rumours of evacuations are about.”