Kyaga spread his hands and appeared to smile again. “But of course.” The gaze of the green eyes settled on Ironwood. “Your friend speaks little.”
“He hears much,” Nistur said. “And he acts decisively.”
“Both are good qualities,” Kyaga commended, “in a counselor or in a warrior.”
“And I assure you he is both. Now, about your chiefs …”
Kyaga stood abruptly. “I do not wish to be rude, but I have much to do. My army prepares for war. You have the freedom of my camp. You may enter any tent and question anyone of whatever rank.”
They stood, and Nistur bowed. “We take our leave of you then. Never fear, we shall deliver the murderer to you within the stipulated time.”
“See that you do.” With these words, Kyaga stalked from the tent. A great roar went up from the host outside at sight of their adored, conquering chief.
The three lingered in the tent for a few minutes longer, saying nothing. Then they strolled outside. Kyaga had ridden off somewhere, taking most of his honor guard with him.
“What do you make of him?” Ironwood asked.
“He is nothing like my expectations. He is no crude barbarian; that is for certain. If the Lord of Tarsis thinks he can play easy political games with this one, he is much mistaken. Kyaga is subtle and possesses a certain wit.”
“Aye, I’ll warrant he’s no sort of barbarian at all. No wonder he wears that veil. I’d wager that his features are unlike those of any tribe here but, because he is veiled, all can imagine his features as they would like them to be.”
“Another bit of subtlety. He spoke to me, but his eyes were on you most of the time. Do you think you have encountered him before?”
“Perhaps in some army years ago …” He paused, features twisted in thought. “But no, I surely would remember such a man.”
“Perhaps,” Nistur said noncommittally. “The way he insists on the loyalty of his followers causes me to suspect that he is deeply suspicious of that loyalty.”
“At least,” Shellring said, “now that he’s fed us, we can believe we’re really safe. I’ve always heard these nomads are serious about hospitality, that when someone’s eaten your food in your tent, you can’t attack him without angering the gods.”
“That is the rule,” Ironwood agreed. “Even if it’s your enemy, you can’t chase him after he’s left your camp, until a day and a night have passed.”
“On the other hand,” Nistur said, “I doubt that Kyaga Strongbow worries much about the good opinion of the gods.”
Chapter Eight
“Where do we start?” Shellring asked.
“With the one named Guklak,” said Nistur.
They walked through the vast, sprawling camp, asking directions occasionally and eventually arriving at the encampment of the Great Ice River nomads, of whom Guklak was chieftain. These people dwelled in low, dome-shaped tents of felt, and their horses were small, shaggy-haired, and sturdy. Somewhat shorter in stature than some of the other nomads, they wore their yellow or red hair in innumerable thin braids, heavily greased. There seemed to be as many women among them as men, and the women were all warriors. Both sexes were heavily tattooed with abstract designs.
Before the chief’s tent stood a standard twenty feet high. From the standard’s many crossbars hung human skulls. The three detectives studied this ominous device for some time, looking about for someone who could inform them if the chieftain was anywhere to be found.
“A fine standard, is it not?” They turned to see a man standing behind them, looking up at the skulls with deep satisfaction.
“Splendid, indeed,” said Nistur. “I take it that these were the heads of prominent warriors?”
The man nodded. “Every one of them a chief slain in battle by my ancestors. Now their courage and cunning belong to the tribe.”
“You are Guklak?” Ironwood asked.
“I am. Guklak Horsetamer, fifty-fourth chief of the Great Ice River people. My ancestors have held the northwest mountains for a hundred generations, since we took them from the snake-men when the gods were young.”
“Until Kyaga assumed overall leadership, that is?” Nistur said insinuatingly.
“Kyaga Strongbow is not an ordinary man,” Guklak maintained stoutly. “He is a great conqueror, touched by the gods, prophesied by a shaman. It is no disgrace to acknowledge him my master. In the past, my ancestors followed great war chiefs and incurred no dishonor thereby.” He glared at them as if challenging them to contradict him.
“I certainly did not mean to suggest such a thing,” Nistur assured him. “Kyaga Strongbow must rejoice to have so loyal a follower. In fact, he has told us that all of his chiefs are as keen and as true to him as you are.”
The blue eyes narrowed. “We are his to command. Some of us, though, are stronger in our loyalty than others.”
“How stood Yalmuk Bloodarrow?” Ironwood asked.
Guklak looked the mercenary over, evaluating. “You have the look of a hired warrior, not an official of Tarsis.”
“Whatever we were before,” said Nistur, “we are investigators now. We seek justice for the murder of Yalmuk Bloodarrow. Was his loyalty as great as yours?”
The chief thought a while before speaking, then replied, “Yalmuk was a brave man and a wise warrior, but he was proud and stiff-necked. He did not bow easily to the yoke of Kyaga Strongbow.”
“And yet Kyaga entrusted him to carry out negotiations with Tarsis,” Nistur prodded.
“Kyaga is generous. He often secures the loyalty of wavering men by showing them special honor and trust.
Many of his personal guards are warriors who swore to slay him during the wars. Besides,” he added, “Yalmuk was in charge only until Kyaga himself arrived to take over.”
“We heard there was bad blood between Yalmuk and the shaman, Shadespeaker,” Ironwood put in.
Guklak spat to leeward. “I have nothing to do with the shaman, if I can help it. I have little use for them as a whole. Shamans should utter prophecy and otherwise stay out of the affairs of men.”
“Kyaga seems to find him useful,” said Nistur.
The chief shrugged his brawny, leather-clad shoulders. “Shadespeaker foretold his coming and so must be honored. The spirit world is all around us; the spirits of our ancestors must be consulted and kept informed. For these things we need the holy men. But when one seeks to influence the deeds of chieftains, a warrior does well to keep his hand on his sword, and his bow ready-strung.”
“I see,” said Nistur. “Now, we were told of a subchief named Shatterspear.”
To their astonishment, Guklak broke into roaring laughter. “I am sure you heard no good of him! He is chief of the Foul Spring tribe. They are a contemptible people, and he exceeds them in all contemptible qualities.”
“And yet your chief esteems him,” said Ironwood.
“The Foul Spring folk are wealthy, for their lands lie athwart a caravan route, and they levy toll on every pound of goods that passes through. But Shatterspear is a fool, and his wealth flows through his hands like sand. Yes, go and talk to him. You look as if you are in need of a good laugh.” Chuckling and snorting, Guklak pushed aside the door curtain of his tent and ducked within.
* * * * *
“Yalmuk?” cried Shatterspear. “What do I care about that rogue?” Although the hour was still early, the chief was half drunk and was apparently working on a total stupor before sundown. He had long, drooping mustaches beside his mobile-lipped mouth, and his eyes were red with drink and the smoke that filled his lavish tent. His clothing was lavish as well, cut like the hides his people wore, but made of silk instead. His broad, flat hat was rimmed with ermine skin, and his braids were woven through golden beads and pierced pearls. The tips of his mustaches were tied to golden rings, and these were connected to the ruby studs in his ears by thin, golden chains. The grip of his long, curved sword was of ivory.
But all his trappings did not lend him majesty, nor could the
y hide the fact that Shatterspear, despite his rank and his vaunting name, was a weak, foolish man. No wonder Kyaga Strongbow kept him close, Nistur thought. A man like this could be used, and he would never present a serious threat.
“And yet,” Nistur said, “he was murdered, and we have been charged to find his killer.”
Ironwood leaned forward. “His killing dishonored your chief. Don’t you want to avenge this insult to Kyaga?”
“Kyaga Strongbow is a great leader,” the nomad sneered, “but he is one chief among many, merely the head of our council. Why, I myself—” A broad hand came from the dimness behind him and shook his shoulder. A high-ranking warrior, who clearly felt his chief had said too much, moved into view.
With annoyance, the chieftain shook off the hand. “I am Shatterspear, and I speak my mind!” He turned back to his guests. “Yalmuk Bloodarrow was a treacherous scoundrel who deserved to die, and whoever killed him can live a long, happy life for all I care. Kyaga is better off without him. Maybe now he will give proper honor to those who have serv—have cooperated with him in making the tribes of the Plains of Dust into a great nation.”
“I am sure that so wise a chief as Kyaga withholds no honor from a chieftain as distinguished as yourself,” Nistur said.
“I speak foremost in the counsel tent,” Shatterspear asserted. “I am a leader in the host, with the place of honor upon the right wing.”
“I see, and most worthy of your distinctions, I am sure. A great chief must repose confidence in his finest warriors and his chieftains of high lineage.” He paused, as if a random thought had intruded on him. “But, it seems to me that Kyaga depends on the influence of his shaman as well. What is the fellow’s name? Ah, Shadespeaker, that is it.”
“Ha!” The laugh was a yelping bark. “Shadespeaker! That fraud hasn’t the courage to speak out among true warriors. He only whispers in Kyaga’s ear, filling it with poison against the chieftains, whose rightful authority he envies!” Again the hand went to his shoulder. Again, he shrugged it off.
“And yet, did he not prophesy the coming of Kyaga?”
“He did, and who knows but that Kyaga himself put him up to it? Oh, I do not fault the chief for employing a useful tool, but now it is as if he takes the green-faced jester seriously!”
“Did Yalmuk feel the same way about him?” Ironwood asked.
“All of us feel that way, although some pretend to honor him. After all, what has this Shadespeaker done save proclaim Kyaga’s ascendancy? I have never seen him call up the spirits of the dead at the midwinter rite. Ghostbrother, our own tribal shaman, does that every year. He interprets for us the will of the Foul Spring spirit. Our ancestors come to him in dreams, and he makes their wishes known. Shadespeaker does none of these things, yet Kyaga spends whole nights in counsel with him, with no one in attendance except for a tongueless slave.”
“I see,” Nistur said. “Did Yalmuk Bloodarrow feel as strongly about Shadespeaker? Did he perhaps insult him to his face?”
Shatterspear’s weak features assumed an expression meant to convey shrewdness. “You mean, did the shaman kill him?”
“Kyaga himself has assured us that the shaman was with him all that night, but it does not mean that Shadespeaker could not have had someone else do the killing for him.”
“It seems to me,” Shatterspear said, “that you are doing all you can to make it look as if Yalmuk was killed by one of us. I think the Lord of Tarsis killed him. Perhaps Yalmuk demanded too high a price to turn traitor.”
“You think he was bargaining with the lord?” Nistur asked.
Again the barked laugh. “I was one of the envoys, remember? Those Tarsian nobles were all but promising us their wives and daughters if we would betray our chief. Why, lord Rukh—” Now the hand clamped on his shoulder with real force, and this time Shatterspear seemed to consider his words.
“Well,” he continued, “never mind. Yalmuk was murdered by the lord, or by some other Tarsian, it matters not. The killing was a deliberate provocation, and there will be war. We will turn Tarsis to ashes and dust, and its presence will no longer blight our plains.”
“Too bad for you,” Ironwood said.
“What do you mean?” Shatterspear demanded.
“Tarsis is a gathering place for the caravan trade. If it is destroyed, the routes will change. There won’t be so many caravans passing through your territory.”
As the implications sifted through the fog of Shatterspear’s mind and his expression transformed into one of dismay, the investigators quietly took their leave. Outside the lavish tent, Nistur chided Ironwood.
“You should not have slipped that burr under his saddle. We do not want Kyaga to think we are here to stir up trouble.”
Ironwood grinned. “I couldn’t help it. That puffed-up buffoon needed to have his vanity punctured.”
“What do we do now?” Shellring asked, squinting at the angle of the sunlight. “Isn’t it about time to go back to the city?” Their prolonged stay in the camp was eating at her nerves.
“Not just yet,” Nistur said. “There is another person I wish to speak with.”
A tall man emerged from the tent behind them. He wore hide garments like the other warriors, but his were of the finest quality and embroidered with silken thread. His was the hand that had so frequently gone to Shatterspear’s shoulder.
“I am Laghan-of-the-Axe, first subchief of the Foul Spring tribe.” The man hitched his thumbs into a coral-studded belt that held the vicious weapon for which he was named.
“And we are most honored by your acquaintance,” Nistur said.
“My chief,” Laghan said, “is a wise and brave leader. Sometimes he drinks too much, and then he says things he would not even consider saying at better times. You would do well not to take too seriously what you just heard.” His right hand was no more than an inch from the haft of his weapon. Ironwood’s was an identical distance from his own hilt. The two men were like tomcats with the fur standing up along their spines.
“Oh, by no means,” said Nistur soothingly. “We are persons of honor and would never take advantage of a man’s moment of weakness. We will not repeat a word of this to Kyaga, nor to the Lord of Tarsis. Our only concern is to find Yalmuk’s murderer.”
Laghan relaxed a little, and his hands fell away from his belt. “That is good. Keep to that course, and you will have no interference from us.”
“Who do you think killed Yalmuk?” Ironwood said.
Laghan looked them over for a while. “My thoughts are my own. Kyaga said you were free to ask, not that we had to answer. You two”—he looked from Nistur to Ironwood, ignoring Shellring—“do not have the look of Tarsians. My advice to you is this: forget about finding Yalmuk’s killer. If you want to get away from Tarsis fast, just come out through one of the wall breaches at night and pass through our part of the camp. No one will hinder you, I’ll see to it.”
“A generous offer,” Nistur said, “but we have our duty.”
Laghan shook his head. “You are not so foolish as that. There is no honor in serving dishonorable villains.” He turned and went back into the chieftain’s tent.
As they walked away, Nistur shook his own head, laughing quietly. “This camp is as bad as Tarsis, rife with mutual suspicions and rivalries and power plays.”
“There is a difference,” Ironwood told him. “These barbarians look you in the eye and speak their hatreds aloud for all to hear. They may be savages, but they are honest.”
“An honest man will kill you as dead as any rogue will,” Shellring said sourly. “Where are we going?”
“Why, to the shaman’s tent, where else?” Nistur informed her.
The tent of Shadespeaker abutted the great tent of Kyaga Strongbow. It was made of black hides, painted with arcane designs, hung all over with small amulets of iron, bronze, wood, stone, and bone. Some of these were in animal form, others of abstract design. There were also the dried carcasses of birds, bats, and other small animals
affixed to the tent, interspersed with dolls in human form, some pierced with nails and tiny daggers.
“I don’t like the looks of this place,” Shellring said.
“I suspect that to be the effect intended,” Nistur said.
“Why don’t I just wait out here while you two go in and talk to him? You wanted me because I know the city, not this place.”
“You come with us,” Ironwood told her.
“Oh, yes,” Nistur agreed. “Your clever eyes and subtle ears might take notice of things that we miss.” He rapped at a doorpost, and a short-haired slave came out. The man looked them over with quick brown eyes.
“We have come to speak with Shadespeaker,” Nistur told him. “Be so good as to summon him. This is by the authority of Kyaga Strongbow himself.”
The man said nothing, but he held the doorflap aside and gestured for them to enter. They ducked below the wooden lintel and passed within. At further gestures from the slave, they seated themselves on leather cushions, and the slave disappeared into a rear compartment of the tent.
“A man of few words,” Ironwood commented.
“With good reason,” said Nistur. “He is tongueless.”
“He must be the slave that drunk said attends Kyaga and the shaman,” Shellring noted.
“Undoubtedly,” Nistur said. “It is not at all uncommon for sovereigns to have servants who cannot speak, and therefore cannot betray secrets.”
Shellring looked all around. “What a spooky place. I don’t like it here.” Amulets and dried animals were hung all over the tent. In one corner sat what appeared to be a mummified human, its withered features leering at them with toothless mouth and eyes like dried dates. In a tiny hearth smoldered bundled herbs that sent up a foul-smelling smoke.
“Stunbog’s cabin is full of magical artifacts,” Nistur pointed out.
She shrugged. “That’s different. I know Stunbog is never going to cast spells on people or call up the dead. I think the dead ought to stay that way.” She looked with wary horror at the mummy. “And they shouldn’t be used to decorate your house, either.”
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