by Andre Norton
“Make sense,” Kade’s headache was returning. He was not amused by Che’in’s riddle within riddle conversation.
“Magic,” Che’in leaned back against the wall as if his usual indolence had caught up with him. “Take a tuft of an enemy’s hair, knot it—with all the proper incantations and sacrifices—then each day draw those knots a little tighter— to be followed by subsequent bodily discomfort on the part of him whose personality is safely netted in your string of knots. If he agrees to your proposition, or you change your mind, certain of those knots can be untied. Regain and his other self released. If you get really thirsty for his blood, you tie your last knot firmly in a tangle and throw your net into a fire, or bury it in the earth, or dispose of it in some other final fashion which would provide a suitably unhappy end for your victim. Knotting is a local science of sorts I have been told.”
Kade summoned up a grin. “And they expect this local magic to work on an off-worlder?”
Everyone knew that no one could be trapped by hallucination magic in which he was not conditioned from his birth. Yet the thought that somewhere a section of hairs, clipped in anger from his skull, was being skillfully and prayerfully knotted for the purpose of pain and revenge was not a pleasant one. Nor did it grow any less ominous the longer Kade considered it. Also there was always the chance that the hidden enemy, impatient at the ill success of his chosen scheme, might attack in a more forthright manner.
“If they discover their mistake,” Che’in echoed Kade’s last thought, “they may take more drastic, and quicker, steps.
Why do they hate you, Whitehawk? What really happened during that mountain trip of yours?”
Kade was being forced into the position where he had to take someone into his confidence. If he went to Abu he believed he would be summarily shipped off planet. The Team Commander could not possibly overlook his subordinate’s flagrant violation of Service orders. But Che’in—could Kade trust him? They had nothing in common, save their employment at the same post, and the younger man knew very little of the other. In the end it was Che’in who made his decision for him.
“Lik was not killed by a kwitu.”
Kade stubbornly held silent, setting his will against the silent and invisible pressure the other was somehow exerting.
“Lik came to a doubtlessly well-deserved end by violence, maybe a spear.”
Kade was quiet as Che’in in his careless voice picked for the truth.
“Somehow, somebody discovered that a belt control is not entirely infallible.”
Kade had schooled himself to meet such a guess. He was sure he made no move, not so much as a flicker of the eyelid, to reveal how close that hit. Yet Che’in was on it instantly. The difference which the younger Trader had noted in the other at his entrance was nakedly eager, breaking through the mask. Che’in looked alive as Kade had never seen him. The face was not that of a Trader, a man who lived by the Policy, but that of a warrior being offered a weapon which would make all the difference in some decisive meeting with an old enemy.
"That is the truth! Say it, Whitehawk! That is the truth!”
And Kade’s will broke down under that flash of real emotion.
“Yes.”
“No wonder they’re after you!” Che’in’s head was up, that avid eagerness still in his features. “If there is an answer to the collar control every Ikkinni on this planet will want it.” He took a step forward, his hands closed firmly on the foot of the infirmary cot. “What sort of a game have you been playing, Whitehawk?”
“None.” Kade hastened to deny what might be termed trickiness. “Everything was an accident. Lik was trampled, gored by that bull just as I said. What happened afterwards was pure accident.” He retold the scene with the terseness of an official report.
“A stunner?” Che’in repeated wonderingly, drawing his own weapon from its holster. Then he added a sharp-toned demand. “What was your beam quota at the time?”
Kade searched memory. “Must have been on full. I hadn’t thumbed down since I shot the kwitu.”
“Full! And it blasted the control and scrapped the collars!”
“And killed two Ikkinni,” Kade reminded him.
“Suppose the quota had been on lower voltage?”
“Well,” Kade began and then stared warily at Che’in, suspicious of being led into some statement which would damn him irrevocably. “There is no way of experimenting on that score. The Styor certainly are not going to let off-worlders play about with a slave control box for the purpose of discovering how such can be made harmless.”
“Correct.” Che’in was masked again. He stood weighing his stunner in his hand as if he would like to try such an experiment. “However, there is this also, Whitehawk. That sonic was tampered with and you were meant to be the victim, just as Steel was written off the rolls earlier. It is good for us here at the post to know a few things, to prevent other bright ideas from overwhelming the ones who dreamed that one out of hyperspace—”
“Why do they—whoever they may be—want me—us— dead?”
Che’in smiled. “An excellent question and one to which there could be several answers. First, a great many of these petty lordlings dislike Terrans merely for being Terrans. We are the first threat to their status which has risen in the long, comfortable centuries during which they have had the large part of the habitable galaxy in their own tight pocket. Just to eliminate some Terrans under a safe and innocent cover would be sport enough to appeal to certain of our unfriendly acquaintances. Then there is the rivalry between the lords here on Klor. A few judicious ‘accidents' the cause of which might be attributable to the negligence of the slaves of one Styor by his jealous neighbor, would make a difference when the next season’s hunting rights were allotted. A dangerous game, to be sure, but greed often spurs one into taking bigger risks than the prize warrants.”
“But,” Kade said slowly, “there could be a third possibility?”
“Politics,” Che’in reholstered his stunner, leaned once more against the wall. “The game of Styor against Styor on Klor is also carried on at higher levels. It could be planet Viceroy against planet Viceroy, jockeying for power within their empire. This is an outpost and the officials here are in two categories, the exiles with a black mark against them on the roles back home, and those who are ambitious but without power or backers. The first group want a coup to redeem their careers, the latter a chance to push their names. And use of carefully manufactured ‘incidents’ can help either.”
“But too many Terran deaths—”
“Yes, if anyone is setting up that particular orbit he is locking his jets on danger, two strikes against his three-fin landing again. But some men are desperate enough for a tricky gamble. Someone, say, trying to unset the High-Lord-Pac.”
“What are you going to do?” Kade came bluntly to the point.
“About this stunner business? Nothing just now. We need the raw material for an experiment. You still have the remains of the blasted control box?”
Kade nodded.
“That goes off the planet today, the supply ship is due in.
That fact, by the way, is what brought me here, Whitehawk. Someone has really humped himself passing papers hither and thither. Your precious oat-bumers are on board.”
Kade had swung his feet off the cot and was looking about for his clothing, the pain in his head forgotten. Che’in laughed and handed him his uniform tunic.
“They’re not sitting on the landing apron yet. You have about four hours grace, since they are still in orbit. You needn’t run all the way to the field—and don’t forget that control box, friend.”
Kade bent down, unseamed those lining pockets in his boot tops and brought out the four small packets into which he had divided the remains of both collar and control box, some of it now only metallic dust. If the experts could make anything out of these bits and pieces he would be not only gratified but amazed. And giving the responsibility of that task to Che’in left him fr
eer in mind as he went to the field where he found most of the post personnel waiting. Some of his enthusiasm must have spread outwards to the others after all.
There were five mares and a stallion. Although not the proud, sleek creatures of Kade’s dreams—for the imports from Qwang-Khan were smaller, shaggier in coat—all were dun with black manes and tails, their legs faintly marked with dark stripes, reverting to their far off Terran ancestors. But when the young Terran personally freed them from their shipping boxes, led them, still dazed from trip shots, out into the corral he had had built, Kade was pleased to find fortune with him. Against the general ocher-brown of the landscape they would be hardly visible from a distance. And these ponies, used to the hardy life of one frontier planet, would make an easier adjustment to another.
The Terran’s only worry was the attitude of the Ikkinni. Since he had chosen to handle the animals himself upon their landing, Kade had not at first been aware of the fact that the natives did not approach the corral at all. Only later, when he wanted help in feeding and watering the new arrivals, he met Buk, and the latter had a sly half-grin.
“Does the starwalker want a labor gang?”
“The animals need water, food—” Kade stopped speaking as he saw Buk’s fingers seek the control box, touch buttons which meant punishment for the slaves.
“Why?” Kade demanded, knowing that the Overman was enjoying this.
“These earth worms say those are devils starwalker brought to devour them. Unless they are driven they will not tend the horses.”
“No!” If Buk drove the Ikkinni to handle horses under the lash of collar pain, Kade’s plan would be defeated.
“I will lead the horses to the wide field,” he said swiftly. “Let the Ikkinni then put the water and feed into the corral while it is empty.”
Buk’s grin faded. Kade allowed him no time for protest as he hurried to the corral gate. So far he had merely postponed trouble, but for how long? And was Buk telling the truth, or using his own power to make the natives hate and fear the horses?
CHAPTER 8
“THAT’S IT, not one of them will willingly go near the horses,” Santoz sounded as if he were relishing Kade’s discomfiture. “This situation could blow up into real trouble.”
“If,” Abu answered from the head of the council table, “we don’t fulfill our contract with the Pac we’ll also be in trouble.”
“What I am asking,” Che’in struck in mildly, “is how this ‘devouring demon’ rumor ever got started in the first place. We’ve imported other, and much more potentially dangerous beasts in the past and never aroused more than some curiosity. Why this sudden antipathy for horses?”
Kade wanted an answer to that himself. It was almost as if someone—or something—had picked the plan out of his brain and set about an effective counterattack even before he had a chance to get started.
“Those other animals were smaller,” Santoz pointed out with irritating reasonableness. “The only large animals native to Klor—the kwitu and the susti—are dangerous.”
“So is the farg and that is just about the size of a half-grown bear. These Ikkinni were hunters before they were captured, we don’t have any of the slaves from the breeding pens here. No, I would say that the rumor of demons did not spring full born from one of their crested skulls. I’d say it was planted.”
"But why?” demanded Santoz.
Che’in smiled gently. “Oh, for any number of reasons, Manual. Say that such a story could be used to inflame the post laborers into a revolt—”
Santoz sneered. “Revolt! With Buk having their lives under his finger tips every second of the day and night? They’re not fools?”
But, Kade’s own thoughts raced, a revolt with a method of handling Buk and his box, however risky, was possible. Was this the time to make a general confession? His lips parted but Che’in was already speaking.
“I don’t believe that any of us are experts in Ikkinni psychology. The Styor have not encouraged such research. Perhaps our best move—”
Abu cut in. “Our best move, since we can not lift a contracted order off-world again, is to get these animals into Styor hands as quickly as possible.”
Che’in grinned. “Give the ‘demons’ into the keeping of those already granted such propensities by the Ikkinni. But, of course!”
That made good sense according to trade reasoning, yes. But Kade did not want a fast move in that direction.
“We’ll have to take them overland,” he pointed out. “And if the Ikkinni have to be forced to act as drivers—”
Abu frowned. “Yes, they might turn against the animals. Well, have you anything helpful to contribute?” His glance to Kade was direct; cold and demanding.
“Let me have one native to begin with, and no Buk. Two days of work about the corral may bring us a convert.”
“I don’t see howl” Santoz objected. “Any native would have to be collar-shocked to get him there and, without Buk, he could turn on you.”
“You have someone in mind?” Abu asked.
‘Well, there is Dokital. He asked questions about the bear. He might just be interested enough in horses to stay around until he saw that they weren’t dangerous,”
“Buk is interested in them,” Santoz suggested.
Kade’s hands tensed under the edge of the table. Santoz was right, the Overman had hung about the corral, asked a multitude of questions. But he was not going to take any cross-country ride with Buk as a partner.
“Not practical,” Abu’s retort had the snap of an order. “Unless we also choose to send along the labor force in its entirety. We can not use the Ikkinni here without Buk. The Lord Sabatha would withdraw all of them immediately. They’re his possessions, ours only on lease. I don’t know, Whitehawk, why you think you might have any luck with Dokital, but you can try for another day or so.”
Only they were not to have another day. They were to have less than five hours.
Kade was in the field beyond the corral. He had a light riding pad on the stallion, another on the back of the lead mare. Equine nature had not changed across the star lanes, nor through the centuries. The herd was as it had always been; a wise mare to lead the bands into new pastures, the stallion ready to fight for his mares, bringing up the rear while in flight, nipping at those who fell behind.
By the gate of the corral stood a black figure, every line of his thin body suggesting, even from this distance, defiance he dared not translate into explosive action. Kade swung up easily on the stallion, booted the horse into a trot back towards the pole wall. And he did not miss Dokital’s answering crab-wise movement which was halted only by the half-open gate. Now the Ikkinni stood penned as the horse and rider approached him, his hands opening and shutting—as if searching the empty air before him for a weapon which did not materialize. The stallion stretched out his head, sniffed at the native, and blew gustily.
“The beast carries no spear against it,” Kade said. “Across the star paths this beast serves warriors, wearing no collar but this,” he lifted his hand, displaying the reins. “As the Kwitu, grass is for its eating, not the flesh of men.”
The hostility he was certain he read in the native’s eyes did not diminish. Kade knew, that with time pressing he must force matters. He whistled, the stallion nickered, and across the field the lead mare answered inquiringly. He had taken the precaution of looping her reins to the empty saddle pad, and now she came at a canter to join them, her sisters drifting after.
Buk was nowhere in sight, but Kade could not be sure that the Overman was not watching. Should the alien use the collar controls now—At least after his first attempt at escape Dokital had not moved, although Kade left a way open for him.
“Warriors ride,” the Terran remarked. He put out his left hand and drew his fingers down the mare’s soft nose.
"There is no warrior.” For the first time the Ikkinni spoke. “It wears the collar.” The heat of anger was searing, though the native did not even glance toward t
he stunner at Kade’s belt.
“That is perhaps so,” Kade agreed. “A warrior fights with a spear, a slave with magic knotted by night.”
Dokital gave no answer to that charge. He stepped out of his corner refuge as if he were being pushed toward the horses and the rider by his desperate need to learn some truth. “The net holds it not?”
“The net is of Klor, how could it hold it which is not of Klor?”
Dokital blinked as he digested that bit of simple logic. But he had intelligence enough to not only accept Kade’s answer but come back with a counter-argument to cross as a fencer’s blade crosses his opponent’s.
“The beast is not of Klor, how then can such be slave to those on Klor?”
“There is magic, and magic. Some kinds sweep from star to star, others bind the men .of one world only. There is nothing to be learned without trial. The knots were netted for it, and that was a trial. Now let another trial be made.”
For a moment, a very long moment, there was silence. Kade heard the ripple of breeze through the grass, the distant call of a sky high bird. He loosed the mare’s reins, gathered them into his own hand.
Dokital moved, raising his palm up and out, taking one step and then another toward the mare. She turned her head, regarded the Ikkinni placidly. Then her nose came down to lip the native’s fingers and Dokital stood valiantly, a tremor visible up his arm, yet he stood.
“Up!” Kade ordered, with a rasp which might have come from Buk’s lips.
If Dokital had not appeared to absorb the information of the impromptu class in horsemanship it was surface indifference only. He mounted the mare clumsily. But he was safely on the riding pad when Kade walked the stallion out into the open land, leading the mare, the other horses trailing.
The walk became a cautious trot and the mare pushed a little ahead, until Ikkinni and Terran were riding almost thigh to thigh. Kade could read no expression on the native’s face, but he was certain a measure of the other’s rigid tenseness had vanished. And now Kade dared to increase the pace to a canter. They circled, were heading back toward the clustered buildings of the post, and Kade cut the speed back to a walk.