“This is char,” he said, breaking a crumbly black lump off the larger brick. “It’s made from one of the shrubs, the leaves are moistened and compressed into blocks. The taste is bearable and we had better get used to it.” He dropped the fragments into the water, which instantly turned a repellent shade of purple.
“I don’t like the way it looks,” Grif said, eying it suspiciously. “I don’t think I want any.”
“You better try it in spite of that. We are going to have to live just like these nomads if we are to escape detection. Which brings up another very important point.”
Jason pulled his sleeve up as he spoke and began to unstrap his power holster, while the other two looked on with shocked, widened eyes.
“What is wrong? What are you doing?” Meta asked when he took the gun off and stowed it in the metal trunk. A Pyrran wears his gun every hour of the day and night. Life is unimaginable without one.
“I’m taking off my gun,” he patiently explained. “If I used it, or if a tribesman even saw it, our disguise would be penetrated. I’m going to ask you to put yours in here, too—”
Before the words were out of his mouth there was a sharp ripping sound as both of the other guns tore through the leather clothing and slapped into their owners’ hands. Jason looked calmly at the unwavering muzzles.
“That is exactly what I mean. As soon as you people get excited, zingo, out come the guns. It’s not that you can’t be trusted; it’s just that your reflexes are wrong. We’re going to have to lock the guns away where we can get at them in an emergency, but where their presence can’t betray us. We’ll just have to handle the locals with their own weapons. Look here.”
The guns zipped back into their power holsters as the Pyrrans’ attention was captured by Jason’s display. He unrolled a skin that clanked heavily. It was filled with a wicked assortment of knives, swords, clubs and maces.
“Nice, aren’t they?” Jason asked, and they both nodded agreement. Babies and candy: Pyrrans and weapons. “With these we’ll be just as well armed as anyone else, in fact better. For any one Pyrran is better than any three barbarians. I hope. But we’re shading the odds with these. With the exception of one or two items, they are all copies of local artifacts, only made of much better steel, harder and with a more permanent edge. Now give me the guns.”
Only GriPs gun appeared in his hand this time, and he had the intelligence to be a little chagrined as he let it slip back into the power holster. Fifteen solid minutes of wheedling and arguing reluctantly convinced Meta she should part with her weapon, and it took the two of them an hour more to disarm the boy. It was finally done and Jason poured out mugs of char for his unhappy partners, both of whom clutched swords to solace themselves.
“I know this stuff is terrible,” he said, seeing the shocked expressions
that appeared on their faces when they drank. “You don’t have to learn to like it, but at least teach yourselves to drink it without looking as though you’re being poisoned.”
Except for occasional horrified lOoks at their bare right arms, the Pyrrans forgot the loss of guns while they readied the cainach for the night. Jason unrolled the fur sleeping bags and turned off the heater while they packed the extra weapons away.
“Bedtime,” he announced. “We have to get up at dawn to move to this spot on the chart. There is a small band of nomads going in the direction of what we think is Temuchin’s main camp, and we want to meet them here. Join forces, practice our barbarian skills, and let them bring us into the camp without too much notice being taken of us.”
Jason was up before dawn and had all the off-planet devices sealed into the lockbox before he woke the others. He had left out three selfheating meal packs but he would not let them be opened until the escung had been loaded. It was a clumsy, time-consuming job this first time, and he was relieved that his angry Pyrrans had been disarmed. The skin cover was pulled off the camach and the iron supporting poles were collapsed. These were tied onto the frame of the wheeled travois to act as a support for the rest of the luggage. The sun was well above the horizon and they were sweating, despite the lung-hurting chill air, before they were through loading everything aboard the escung. The moropes were rumbling deep in their chests as they grazed, while the goats were spread out on all sides nibbling the scant grass. Meta looked pointedly at all this eating and Jason got the hint.
“Come and get it,” he said. ‘We can harness up after we eat.” He pulled the opening tab on his pack and steam rose at once from its contents. They broke off the attached plastic spoons and ate in hungry silence.
“Duty calls,” Jason announced, scraping up the last morsel of meat. “Meta, use your knife and dig a nice deep hole to bury these meal packs. I’ll saddle the moropes and harness the one that pulls the escung. Grif, take that basket, there on top, and pick up all the morope chips. We don’t want to waste a natural resource.”
“You want me to what?”
Jason smiled falsely and pointed to the ground near the big herbivores. “Dung. Those things there. We save them and dry them, and that is what we use from now on to heat and cook with.” He swung the nearest saddle onto his back and made believe he did not hear the boy’s answering remark.
They had observed how the nomads handled the big beasts and had had some practice themselves, but it was still difficult. The inoropes
were willing but incredibly stupid, and responded best only to the application of direct force. They were all almost exhausted by the time they moved out, Jason leading the way on one riding morope and Meta on the second. Grif, perched high on the loaded escung, trailed behind, riding backward to keep an eye on the goats. These animals trailed after, grabbing mouthfuls of grass as they went, conditioned to stay close to their owners who supplied the vital water and salt.
By early afternoon they were saddle-sore and weary, when they saw the cloud of dust moving diagonally across their front.
“Just sit quiet and keep your weapons handy,” Jason said, “while I do the talking. Listen to the way they speak this simplified language so that I ter on you’ll be able to do it yourself.”
As they came closer, the dark blobs of moropes could be made out, with the scattered specks of the goat herds behind. Three moropes swung away from the larger group and headed their way at a dead run. Jason held up his hand for his party to halt, then cursed as he threw all of his weight on the reins to bring his hulking mount to a stop. Sensation penetrated its tiny brain and it shuddered to a halt and began instantly to graze. He loosened his knife in its sheath and noticed that Meta’s right hand was unconsciously flexing, reaching for the gun that was not there. The riders thundered up, stopping just before them.
The leader had a dirty black beard and only one eye. The red, raw appearance of the empty socket suggested that the eyeball had been gouged out. He wore a dented metal helm that was crowned with the skull of some long-toothed rodent.
“Who are you, jongleur?” he asked, shifting a spiked mace from one hand to the other. “Where you go?”
“I am Jason, singer of songs, teller of tales, on my way to the camp of Temuchin. Who are you?”
The man grunted and picked at his teeth with one blackened nail.
“Shanin of the rat tribe. What do you say to rats?”
Jason had not the slightest idea what one said to rats, though he could think of a few possibly inappropriate remarks. He noticed now that the others had the same type of skull, rats’ skulls undoubtedly, mounted on their helms. The symbol of their tribe, perhaps, different skulls for different tribes. But he remembered that Oraiel had no such decoration, and that the jongleurs were supposed to stay outside of tribal conflicts.