“Rise, awake,” he shouted, throwing open the flap of his camach. “I shall go before the great Temuchin and I must dress accordingly.” Meta and Grif looked coldly at Jason and the officer who had followed him and made no attempt to move.
“Get cracking,” Jason said in Pyrran. “Rush around and look like you’re impressed, offer this elegant slob a drink and stuff like that. Keep his attention off me.”
Ahankk took a drink, but he still kept a wary eye on Jason.
“Here,” Jason said, holding the lute out to Grif. “Put a new string on this thing, or make believe you are changing it if you can’t fl.nd one. And don’t lose your temper when I shove you. It’s just part of the act.”
Grif scowled and growled, but otherwise reacted well enough when Jason bullied him off to work with the lute. Jason shed his jacket, rubbed fresh grease into his face and a little onto his hair for good measure, then opened the lockbox. He reached in and took out his better jacket, palming a small object at the same time.
“Now hear this,” he called out in Pyrran. “I’m being rushed to see Temuchin and there is no way out of it. I’ve taken one of the dentiphones and I’ve left two more on top. Put them on as soon as I’ve gone. Stay in touch and stay alert. I don’t know how the interview is going to turn out, but if there is any trouble, I want us to be in contact at all times. We may have to move fast. Stick with it, gang, and don’t despair. We’ll lick them yet.”
As he slipped into the jacket he screamed at them in in-between. “Give me the lute, and hurry! If anything is disturbed or there is any trouble while I am gone, I will beat you both.” He stalked out.
They rode in a loose formation, and perhaps it was only accidental that there were soldiers on all sides of Jason. Perhaps. What had Temuchin heard and why did he want to see him? Speculation was useless and he tried to drop the train of thought and observe his surroundings, but it kept creeping back.
The afternoon sun was low behind the cainachs when they approached the military camp. The herds were gone and the tents were arranged in neat rows. There were troops on all sides. A wide avenue opened up with a very large, black camach at the far end, guarded outside by a row of spearmen. Jason did not need any diagrams to know whose tent this was. He slid from his morope, tucked the lute under his arm, and followed his guiding officer with what he intended to be a proud but not haughty gait. Ahankk went in front of Jason to announce him, and as soon as his back was turned, Jason slipped the dentiphone into his mouth and pushed it into place with his tongue. It fitted neatly over an upper back molar, and the power would be turned on automatically by contact with his saliva. “Testing, testing, can you hear me?” he whispered under his breath. The microminiaturized device had an automatic volume control and could broadcast anything from a whisper to a shout.
“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 radiophonic communication by grabbing his arm. Jason ignored him, pulling away and walking alone toward 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, for Jason could not control a look of astonishment as he realized what the throne was made of. It was a tractor seat, supported and backed by recoilless rifles bound together. 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 mustache 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 in-between. “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.