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 together 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 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, for 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 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 himself was un,hurt. Jason, speliking 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.”
8
“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 toward 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 as if it were being torn from the hand. The officer writhed and resisted, pulling at his sword clumsily, crosswise, for 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 first.
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 designation, 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. Because 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, 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 pilating agent to hurry the growth of a thick and sinister mustache 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.