“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.
“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.
