Smugglers of Gor

Chapter Twenty-One



“Ai!” I cried, “What things are these!”

There were two of them. Almost as one, those two large, shaggy heads had turned, so swiftly that it seemed there had been no turning. They had been intent on the live animal bound on the spit. Then, almost as though there had been no movement, we were regarded.

“No!” said Tyrtaios to me. “Do not!” His hand stayed mine. So the bright serpent of steel remained in its housing, tense. “No,” said Tyrtaios, again.

I had not seen such eyes in beasts. They were large, rounded eyes, and they suddenly flashed like burnished copper, reflecting the firelight.

They were crouched down. The legs seemed short for the body, but the body was long, and the arms were very long. There was something odd about the hands, or paws, but it did not then register with me what it might be.

We had come on two beasts, in the woods. But there was a fire. Surely beasts do not build fires.

But they were beasts.

Why had a fire been built?

A small beast squirmed, bound on a stick, or spit.

Many shadows were about. The clearing was small. Branches and trees were about. The moons were obscured. The beasts, regarding us, were deeply furred, so much so I was not immediately sure of the size or form of the actual body. Too, for an instant, only an instant, it seemed the fur had been erected, frighteningly, and then it subsided.

Tyrtaios removed his hand from mine.

“Had you drawn,” said Tyrtaios, “you would now be dead, and perhaps myself as well.”

“They are only beasts,” I said.

“I first saw such things only days ago,” said Tyrtaios.

“Beasts,” I said.

“Sometimes they are the last things one sees,” said Tyrtaios. “They do not always care to be looked upon by men.”

“Let us circumvent this place,” I said, “for I fear peril here, and continue on, to keep the rendezvous with your friends.”

“These,” said Tyrtaios, “are the friends.”

“Beasts?” I said.

“Look more closely,” said Tyrtaios.

“I see the leather bands which bind them,” I said. The firelight shone on the broad straps.

“They are not bound,” said Tyrtaios. “That is harnessing. Do you not observe accouterments? See, too, the metal rings on the left wrists.”

“Its master has put large, golden rings in the ears of one,” I said.

“It has a lord,” said Tyrtaios, “somewhere, probably not here, but no master.”

“They must be dull of sense,” I said, “for such beasts, for they did not know of our presence until a moment ago.”

“No,” said Tyrtaios, “they were well aware of our presence. Their seeming unawareness, almost somnolence, was to put us at our ease.”

“To lure us in?” I said.

“I think not this time,” he said.

“They turned their heads quickly, only when we were almost upon them,” I said.

“I doubt they could have helped that,” he said. “I think it was reflexive, when a certain critical distance was reached. The beast can only control itself so far. That must be remembered. They can control themselves only so far. They are dangerous, even to friends, and allies. The ears went back against the head, at the same time. Did you notice?”

“No,” I said. It was dark. Much had happened quickly. I wondered if Tyrtaios had really noticed that, about the ears, or had just realized, afterwards, that it had taken place. The ears were lifted now, and turned toward us, like large eyes which could hear sound.

“We did not come on them unawares,” said Tyrtaios. “They can detect the tread of a field urt through grass at a dozen paces.”

“You speak of them as though they were men,” I said.

“They are similar to men, but different, very different.”

“I was startled,” I said. “It was fortunate I did not fall on them with my sword.”

“You would have been unsuccessful,” he said.

“How so?” I said. “They are not armed.” The strike of the double-edged gladius would be first to the left, and then, with the backstroke, to the right, both strokes to the throat, both like a whisper, scarcely heard, but deep enough. The blade must not be impeded, no more than necessary. He who uses the gladius like a butcher, is not likely to use it long, and perhaps but once.

“The one behind you is,” said Tyrtaios.

I turned about, slowly.

Behind us, a mighty ax grasped in its hands, or paws, was a third beast, larger than the others. I had not heard it behind us. For so large an animal it had moved with great stealth. To be sure, so, too, when hunting, do the sleen and larl. Had it been hunting, and what then might it have been hunting? I then had the sense that it might have been behind us, lost in the shadows, almost invisible, for some time. I would later come to understand, too, that the path toward the fire had been cleared of dried leaves, and twigs. A forester might have noted such things, the lack of sound. I had not. Apparently it had been intended, from the positioning of brush and branches, and forest debris, that we would approach the two beasts by the fire by means of this readied avenue. I suspect Tyrtaios had been aware of this, and had found it acceptable. Perhaps he felt there was no alternative.

I regarded the beast behind me. It was crouched over, grasping the enormous ax. A man would have found it difficult to have lifted, let alone wield, that mighty tool, or weapon. In its grasp it seemed little more than a stick. One blow from that huge, long-handled, broad-bladed, double-bladed device might have felled a small tree. I did not doubt it could cut a man in two. In the beast there was no sign of agitation, but, rather, of attention, of vigilance. What storm of force, I wondered, might be unleashed in such a mighty frame? Surely it was there, beneath that surface. Could lightning, waiting, conceal itself within a pelt, lie in ambush; it might seem so. I had the sense of a crossbow with its bolt loaded, the slight pressure of a finger on the trigger, that of a mountain containing fire, a seething, churning lake of molten stone, easily agitated, which might erupt. I regarded the beast. I could not well sense its mien. I could read no expression, nor intent, on its face, or muzzle; there was no wrinkled snout, no bared fangs. There was no sound, no snarl, no growl. The nostrils were slightly distended. The ears were back, against the side of the head.

“Make no sudden moves,” said Tyrtaios.

I had no intention of doing so.

Tyrtaios lifted his hand to the two beasts by the fire, palm inward. “Tal,” he said.

One of the beasts by the fire lifted a small metal box, which almost disappeared within its grasp. It was then I noted, uneasily, that its large hands had multiply jointed digits, or fingers, which were rather like tentacles. Moreover, there were six of these digits on each hand.

“Can they speak?” I asked.

“Gorean?” he asked.

“Of course,” I said.

“Some,” he said, “after a fashion. Most not.”

“How any?” I asked. “They are beasts.”

“Can you speak their tongue?” he asked.

“They have a tongue?” I said.

A tissue of noises which were far from human, but might rather have been the unintelligible emanations of a beast of prey, of a larl, or sleen, emerged from the throat of the beast who held the tiny box, or that which seemed tiny in its grasp.

Simultaneously the large beast behind us withdrew into the forest, perhaps to watch the path.

The beast with the box pressed a part of its surface, on the side, and, on its upper surface, rotated what seemed to be a tiny dial, rather like that by means of which one might set a chronometer.

From my time on the world Earth, and from the voyages I had made, I was no stranger to a variety of interesting devices seldom found on Gor, devices of communication, and record keeping, and such, devices the nature of which was unknown to most Goreans, even to those who had attained to the Second Knowledge.

The beast with the box regarded Tyrtaios.

It then made a sound, a soft, guttural sound.

A mechanically produced sound came from the box. It took me an instant to realize that it was a familiar Gorean word, a greeting. It was ‘Tal’.

“It is done?” asked the beast.

“Yes,” said Tyrtaios.

“You are late,” said the beast.

“It seemed wise to leave in darkness,” said Tyrtaios. “Too, it would be well for us to soon return, in darkness, as well, lest our absence be noted.”

“You have brought the certification, with its seal?” inquired the beast.

“The two objects, two great boxes,” said Tyrtaios, “as instructed, have been placed on the ship, and stored as instructed, inconspicuously, amongst other cargo.”

“They appear on the manifests?” asked the beast.

I noted the small animal, live, squirming on the spit, on which it was bound. It made no sound.

“Yes,” said Tyrtaios, “innocently, as tools for metalwork.”

“Good,” said the beast.

“I am supposing you know the nature of this secret cargo,” said Tyrtaios.

“I am so privileged,” said the beast.

“I am not so privileged?” asked Tyrtaios.

“No,” said the beast.

“I see,” said Tyrtaios.

“You would not understand its nature,” said the beast.

“It is to be employed at the World’s End?” asked Tyrtaios.

“Precisely,” said the beast.

“Assuming the voyage is successful, and one reaches the World’s End,” said Tyrtaios.

“I suspect,” said the beast, “that the ship will never reach the World’s End, for such a voyage has never been accomplished. Ships which pass the farther islands do not return. At least none have done so. I think it is madness to essay such a voyage, to embark so, thusly tempting the cruelties of Thassa, but those above me, higher in the rings, will risk much, even the cargo itself, which on this world is unique and invaluable, on the slim chance that the voyage will be successful. And, should the voyage be successful, it is of the utmost importance, a matter dealing with worlds, that the cargo reaches the right party.”

“It is so valuable?” said Tyrtaios.

“Yes,” said the beast.

“Then it is gold, or silver, a great quantity, really,” said Tyrtaios.

“No,” said the beast. “Compared to it gold or silver, precious ointments, coffers of jewels, and such, things that you regard as of value, would be no more than a spoonful of silt, a cup of sand or dirt.”

“I see,” said Tyrtaios.

“But to you, greedy friend,” said the beast, “it would have no value whatsoever in itself, only in its proper delivery to the selected parties. To you it would be, in itself, incomprehensible, meaningless, literally worthless, but to those who understand it, and can make use of it, it is of great value. Keep clearly in mind, it is worth gold and silver, and such, to you, only if it reaches its intended destination. You will then be well paid, with perhaps more than tharlarion weights of gold and silver, perhaps even with countries, and ubarates.”

“I would be curious to see what is so worthless, and so valuable,” said Tyrtaios.

The second beast, who had been following this exchange, suddenly growled, menacingly. The first beast, however, cautioned it to silence.

“You have heard of the Flame Death of the Priest-Kings?” asked the first beast of Tyrtaios.

“I have heard of it,” said Tyrtaios, “but I have not seen it.”

“I have seen it once,” said the beast, “when a fellow of mine, brandishing a forbidden weapon, one forbidden by the laws of Priest-Kings, was suddenly torn away from me, literally from my side, in a burst of light, of flesh, of blood, and ash. The stones on which he had stood had melted.”

I realized then that the beasts, who were presumably advanced, perhaps as much as the men of Earth, or more, here, on Gor, had limited themselves to permitted weapons. They then, I thought, as men, realized the power of Priest-Kings, and feared them. How formidable, how terrible, I thought, must be Priest-Kings.

“I do not understand,” said Tyrtaios.

“Should the cargo be tampered with,” said the beast, “it will be destroyed, and he who would dare to tamper with it, perhaps merely desiring to apprise himself of its nature, with it. Only certain parties, properly instructed, entrusted with the codes, can open the containers with impunity.”

I regarded the small animal, hairless, on the spit, writhing, cooking. Its mouth opened and closed. Its eyes stared out, wildly. It made no sound. Presumably it felt nothing.

“You have seen that?” I said to Tyrtaios, indicating the small animal on the spit.

“Of course,” he said, in annoyance.

“It is alive,” I said.

“Obviously,” said Tyrtaios.

“It is insensible of pain,” I said.

“Not at all,” said Tyrtaios.

“It is silent,” I said.

“I have been here before,” said Tyrtaios. “It is ingenious. A small incision is made in the throat. That silences the animal.”

“Its cries might annoy your friends?” I said.

“I do not think so,” said Tyrtaios. “I suspect they do not concern themselves with such things. Nor should you. Perhaps they would enjoy it. I do not know. Rather, here, in the forest, one would not wish its whimperings, shrieks, or squeals to attract the attention of, say, a passing sleen or panther.”

“Why do they not kill it?” I said.

“I do not know,” said Tyrtaios.

“Kill it,” I said.

“Do not concern yourself.”

“Kill it,” I said.

“We are guests here,” said Tyrtaios. “Be civil.”

“Have them kill it,” I said.

“Why?” he asked.

Many Goreans, I suppose, might seem callous, heartless, or cruel to many of Earth, but they commonly, as those of Earth often do not, love their world, love growing things, trees, grass, flowers, and the world itself, the day and night, the seasons, the wind and sky, the stars, the sound of water in brooks, and live animals, birds, and such. They care for their world and the living things within it. Perhaps this is foolish, but it is a common Gorean way. Who is to say which way is best? Or does it matter? But Goreans will kill for their way.

“What is the concern of your companion?” asked the beast with the device.

“The food,” said Tyrtaios.

“What is wrong with it?” asked the beast. “We are preparing it for you. You commonly cook your food, do you not? We prefer a live kill, with the fresh blood.”

“I think,” said Tyrtaios, “he would prefer that it be killed.”

“It is said that cooking it alive improves the flavor,” said the beast. “I have heard so.”

“Have them kill it,” I said.

“It may not be their way,” said Tyrtaios.

“Kill it,” I said, “or I will.”

“No need,” said Tyrtaios. “It is dead now.”

The second beast, he not with the device, slipped the small animal from the spit.

“Your companion is correct,” said the beast with the device. “It is better undercooked, and best when raw, alive, with the racing of the blood, and the many secretions of terror flooding within its circulatory system.”

The second beast lifted the limp, hairless, burned body toward us.

I shook my head.

“Pulling the fur out, too, bit by bit, before placing it on the spit, this producing chemical alterations associated with pain, improves the flavor, as well, or so I am told,” came from the first beast, its words emerging from the device.

“You are thoughtful,” said Tyrtaios.

“We hoped to please you,” came from the device.

“We are grateful,” said Tyrtaios. “The mighty lords are generous. The hospitality of their race is legendary. Well do I recall, aforetimes, the sumptuousness of their provender. But, alas, we have now no time to feed. We must soon return to Shipcamp, lest our absence be noted.”

The beast who had offered us the food then discarded it, to the side, in the bushes. It was not, I gathered, to their taste. Or, perhaps, in its present, ruined condition it was fit only for humans.

“Do you still wish the fire?” asked the beast with the device.

“For a little time,” said Tyrtaios. “Our night vision is less acute than yours.”

The primary purpose of the fire then, I supposed, had been to mark the location of this rendezvous. One gathered that the large beasts, their eyes like dark moons, might easily negotiate terrains in which a human might find himself helpless. So, too, of course, could the sleen and larl.

“Can you trust your companion?” inquired the beast with the device. “If not, he need not leave this place.”

“Do not fear,” said Tyrtaios. “There are too few of us as it is, given your instructions. Your prescripts have been clear. Few know of these things. But some must know, else these matters cannot be pursued to fruition.”

The beast made growling noises, which seemed to me laden with menace. The sounds which emerged from the device, however, were even, and noncommittal. They might have been printed on a public board. “Reliability is best guaranteed at the point of a sword.”

“That is understood,” said Tyrtaios.

“The certification?” asked the first beast.

Tyrtaios reached within his tunic, and handed a folded paper to the beast with the device, who put the device to one side, near the fire, and perused the paper. I saw it only briefly. To me the script, which was cursive, was unintelligible, little more than claw marks, but, affixed to the paper, there were two seals, one which seemed no more than a patch of hair, interwoven with silver thread, and the other was in the script of the Pani, in which they transcribe their Gorean, much as the tribesmen of the Tahari write their Gorean in their own unusual letters, or signs. Spoken Gorean, despite differences in accent, such as those of Ar and Cos, is widely comprehensible on Gor. It is, after all, Gorean, the Language. On the other hand, many are the marks by which the same sounds might be represented. The paper seemed worn to me, soiled, and frayed, and I suspected its message, assuming it was a message, might have been framed and inscribed months ago, and perhaps faraway. The seal of hair on it, supposing it was a seal, which I took it to be, from its appearance and placement, seemed partly removed, or torn, and surely some of the silver threads had parted. Perhaps it had been conveyed to Shipcamp after a long journey, I supposed a secret journey, and had survived various perils and hardships. Certainly it seemed, from its appearance, its discoloration and staining, to have endured a variety of housings and weathers. On the other hand, the seal in the Pani script was fresh. I conjectured that that seal had been emplaced on the document recently, perhaps even earlier today.

“It is in order,” said the beast, lifting its head.

These words came from the device, now lying to one side. I thus noted two things; first, with interest, that the device, to be effective, need not be in hand, and, second, with some apprehension, that the hands, or paws, of the beast were now free. One thing was certain. The certification, or document, had now been delivered. I was not now clear what, if anything, might ensue. I was aware, very much aware, should it charge, I would not have time to unsheathe even the dagger at my belt.

“You will require humans to guard the cargo, and deliver it to the appropriate parties,” said Tyrtaios.

“Unfortunately,” said the beast.

“The noble lords cannot well share the journey of the great ship,” said Tyrtaios.

“Nor would we desire to do so,” said the beast.

“You fear the voyage will be unsuccessful,” said Tyrtaios.

“It cannot succeed,” said the beast. “None reach the World’s End, not so. The great ship is the folly of a madman, lame, half-blind Tersites. He dares dispute the will of Thassa, known for a thousand years, that none may venture beyond the farther islands. Those who have done so have never returned. The ship is great, but Thassa is greater. And she is not patient. She scorns Tersites, his vanity and presumption. She mocks the architecture of his delusions. She scorns the very wood with which he has framed his dreams. She will dismantle his vaunted, arrogant, floating city timber by timber.”

“The cargo has been loaded,” said Tyrtaios. “The certification has been delivered.”

“You now wish pay?” asked the first beast.

“Others know of the cargo,” said Tyrtaios. “If I do not return, it will be removed from the ship, and burned.”

“You have made such an arrangement?” asked the first beast.

“Of course,” said Tyrtaios.

“And you have men personally loyal to you, who will see to this?”

“Yes,” said Tyrtaios.

“I wonder if that is true,” came from the device.

“You cannot risk that it is not,” said Tyrtaios.

“Your precaution is well understood, but unnecessary,” said the beast. “You stand high in our esteem, and trust.”

Tyrtaios inclined his head, slightly.

The first beast made a sign to the second, who withdrew a small, but weighty sack from a leather container which lay near the fire.

He cast it to the feet of Tyrtaios, who did not move.

“It is tarn disks, gold, of double weight,” came from the device.

“We must return to Shipcamp, before we are missed,” said Tyrtaios. “I wish you well.” He turned, as though to leave.

“Stop, wait,” came from the device.

Tyrtaios turned about.

“You have passed the test well,” came from the device.

The second beast then, though I think the gesture pleased him not, bent down, and, not taking his eyes from Tyrtaios, picked up the small sack. The skin on the back of my neck seemed to rise, as I saw that small sack almost disappear in the latitudinal grasp of those long, encircling, multiply jointed six digits. It was then handed to Tyrtaios, with an understated politeness that I found disconcerting. I was confident that we might not have left that small clearing alive, were it not that we were seemingly required as elements, essential elements, in some business which eluded my comprehension.

“It is a great pleasure to do business with one so astute,” said the first beast.

“I wish you well,” said Tyrtaios. He slipped the small sack inside his tunic. I was surprised he did not place it in the wallet slung at his waist. Mostly, I wished to leave this place, to make away as soon as possible.

“Wait,” said the first beast.

Tyrtaios turned back.

“Have you not forgotten something?” came from the device.

“Lord?” asked Tyrtaios.

“It is worth nothing to you,” said the beast.

“What?” asked Tyrtaios.

“Were you not entrusted with a vessel, a small vessel, constituting a celebratory draft, a gift, a reward and pledge, placing a seal on our business?”

“Ah!” said Tyrtaios.

“Did you forget?” came from the device.

“Yes,” said Tyrtaios.

“Of course,” said the beast.

“Forgive me,” said Tyrtaios.

“It is from a Home World,” said the beast. “It is rare here. Perhaps you hoped to sell it. But, greedy friend, it is worthless to you.”

“There is very little in the vessel,” said Tyrtaios.

“Did you sample it?”

“No,” said Tyrtaios.

“I doubt that it would be to your taste,” said the beast.

“The seal is unbroken,” said Tyrtaios.

“Give it to me,” said the first beast.

“To me!” said the second beast.

“My superior entrusted it to me, and, I gather, his superior to him,” said Tyrtaios.

“For us!” said the second beast.

“For the three of you, surely,” said Tyrtaios. But the third beast was not present. It had apparently gone to watch the trail.

“We two,” said the first beast. It then shut off the device, abruptly.

The two beasts then, crouched down, regarded one another, I thought balefully.

Tyrtaios reached into his wallet, and drew forth a small bottle. I feared the two beasts were to pounce upon him, given the regard in which they seemed to hold the small vessel, but they stopped suddenly, angrily, apprehensively, for, having broken the seal and removed the bottle’s stopper, Tyrtaios held it, as though to spill its contents on the ground. The two backed away, a pace, eyeing one another.

Tyrtaios pointed to the first beast, that which had managed the communication device, and held the bottle toward it. We took him, I gathered, to be first amongst the three beasts. The second growled, menacingly. Tyrtaios did not relinquish his grip on the bottle, even when the first beast seized his hand in its paws and forced the bottle to his own lips. It seemed it would drain its contents, what little there was. Tyrtaios yanked back the bottle, and a bit of the beverage splashed free. A howl of rage came from the second beast, but the first regarded Tyrtaios with fury. Tyrtaios then handed the bottle to the second beast, who with one motion threw the contents down that open, dark, fanged, spread maw. Both beasts then leapt into the air, and then crouched down, eyeing one another. The long tongues moved about their jaws. The bottle lay on its side, in the dirt, empty.

“They left none for their fellow,” observed Tyrtaios.

“Let us leave,” I said.

“Where is the third?” asked Tyrtaios.

“Out there in the darkness, guarding the trail,” I speculated.

“No matter,” said Tyrtaios. He loosened his dagger in its sheath.

“We need a lamp,” I said.

“There is light enough,” he said. “We need only reach the river.”

We then left the small clearing.

I looked behind us, and noted that the small fire had been extinguished. I gathered that it had served its purpose, marking their campsite, and that the beasts had little need of its illumination.

“When the fee was cast to the ground,” I said, “it was no test.”

“Certainly not,” said Tyrtaios. “It was a gesture of contempt, a transparent sleight, an obvious insult.”

“But the beast,” I said, “then need retrieve it himself, and did so, seething with fury.”

“We permitted it to save face,” said Tyrtaios, “pretending to accept the matter on the leader’s vaunted terms, as a test of our pride, and probity.”

“Do you think he was fooled?” I said.

“Of course not,” said Tyrtaios.

“He is dangerous,” I said.

“They are all dangerous,” said Tyrtaios.

“I do not understand the business of the certification,” I said.

“It certifies,” he said, “that the cargo was placed on the ship of Tersites, as was intended.”

“That much I gathered,” I said, “but what is involved here, what is the cargo, what is afoot?”

“I know very little about it,” said Tyrtaios, “and I gather that that is for the best.”

“Doubtless the messenger, he who delivered it to your superior, would know,” I said.

“I think not,” said Tyrtaios. “And the messenger is dead, as the others before him.”

“I do not understand,” I said.

“The certification, which was to be delivered only when the cargo was placed on the ship of Tersites, has come from faraway, perhaps from as far away as the Voltai range, and has passed from one messenger to another, each one of whom was killed after delivering it to the next.”

“They expected nothing, and were unconnected, the one with the other?” I said.

“A useful procedure for ensuring security,” said Tyrtaios.

“You delivered it boldly,” I said.

“I am needed for the success of their venture, whatever may be its nature,” said Tyrtaios.

He then, with his dagger, parted the strings which held the wallet to his belt, and cast the wallet into the brush.

I did not understand why he did this. He did not resheathe his dagger.

“Let us continue on,” I said, uneasily.

“No,” he said, “we are waiting here.”

“I do not like this business,” I said.

“It pays well,” he said.

“Why are we waiting?” I asked.

“There is no point in going further, not now,” said Tyrtaios. “It would be foolish to do so.”

“I do not understand,” I said.

“The fire at the campsite is out,” said Tyrtaios. “That will doubtless inform our third friend that we have left the site, and are on the trail.”

“So?” I said.

“So our friend will be expecting us, and, when we do not appear, he will investigate.”

“I would suppose so,” I said. “I am not eager to encounter him.”

“Unfortunately I must do so,” said Tyrtaios. “He was not with the others. I think that had not been anticipated. But no matter.”

“I understand nothing of this,” I said.

“You do recall,” said Tyrtaios, “that the beast with the speaking machine claimed to know the contents of the cargo.”

“Yes,” I said.

“The other two, as well, would be likely to know,” said Tyrtaios.

“I suppose so,” I said.

“Our friend is approaching,” said Tyrtaios.

And surely, a darkness amongst darknesses, but a moving darkness, was moving toward us, a large darkness. Then the thing was before us. It stopped. It seemed uncertain. Perhaps it was puzzled, that it had not been joined on the trail. In any event, it had now retraced its path, and it stood, looming, before us. How large the thing was, and, in its way, how terrible. It growled, softly. There was no device, no speaking machine.

“Tal,” said Tyrtaios, pleasantly, and plunged his dagger into the beast’s chest.

I leaped back, and the large body fell at our feet. The blow had been unhesitant, efficient, unwavering, swift, clean, firm, deep, to the hilt, exact, powerful, a blow worthy of the dark caste itself.

I did not speak my suspicions.

Tyrtaios wiped his blade clean on the beast’s fur.

“You killed it,” I said. “Why?”

“It was necessary,” said Tyrtaios.

“What of the others?” I said.

“They are dead,” said Tyrtaios.

“The beverage?” I said.

“Precisely,” said Tyrtaios.

“And this one did not drink,” I said.

“Precisely,” said Tyrtaios.

So, I thought, there are now three fewer who know the nature of the cargo I had helped to put aboard the great ship.

“Let us return to Shipcamp,” I said.

“No,” said Tyrtaios. “We return to the camp of our friends.”

“Why?” I asked.

“On Gor,” said he, “such things are not likely to travel with an empty purse.”

“I see,” I said.

I accompanied Tyrtaios back to the clearing. We rekindled the fire, and he, on his knees, rummaged the packs of the beasts.

“Good,” he said, from time to time.

I gathered his trip was not without profit.

I regarded the bottle, fallen to the ground, in the center of the clearing. Two large bodies, contorted, lay near it.

“Do not touch it,” he said.

“I will not do so,” I said.

I recalled that he had placed the tarn disks within his tunic, not within his wallet, and that later, on the trail, he had cast the wallet away. The bottle, I recalled, had been carried in the wallet. The substance must be very powerful, I thought, so little of it, yet enough to slay two such beasts, even three. Tyrtaios, who was not a timid man, had been unwilling to keep even the wallet in which the vessel, closed as it was, had been carried.

Tyrtaios cut the golden rings from the ears of the first beast. He did not concern himself with the rings on the left wrist of either beast. They were of base metal.

Tyrtaios then stood up, shouldering a large leather sack, in which he had placed a number of articles, coins, belts, buckles, accouterments, and such.

“No forbidden weapons?” I asked.

“No,” said Tyrtaios, “and I would not touch them did I find them.”

“Nor I,” I said, looking about myself, uneasily.

He then kicked dirt over the fire, and we stood in the darkness of the forest.

“What was done here?” I asked.

“What was commanded,” he said.

“Should the cargo reach the World’s End,” I said, “who will know to whom it is to be delivered?”

“My superior,” said Tyrtaios.

“It is hard for me to think of one such as you having a superior,” I said.

“For a time,” said Tyrtaios. “For a time.”

“Someone is waiting at the World’s End to receive the cargo?” I said.

“Someone, or something,” he said. “One gathers so.”

“This has to do with worlds?” I said.

“I think so,” he said. “Would you like a ubarate, or a country?” he asked.

“Of course,” I said.

He then went to the edge of the clearing. I sensed his position in the darkness from the sound.

“What of these bodies?” I asked.

“We will leave them,” he said, “for the forest, for the winter, for rain, for snow, for wind, for urts, for sleen, for panthers.”

“I see,” I said.

“Have no fear,” he said. “I have removed the harnessing, the accouterments. I have discarded the speaking device.”

“They will be taken as beasts,” I said.

“They are beasts,” he said.

“Much as men,” I said.

“In their way,” he said.

“What are they?” I asked.

“Surely you know,” he said.

“I think so,” I said.

“Kurii,” he said.

“Yes,” I said.