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.