“Three nemet?” the captain snarled. “One. One we keep. You choose which one.”
“All three,” Kurt insisted, though the captain brandished his ax. It took all his self-possession not to flinch as the weapon made a pass at him.
Then the captain whirled the weapon in a glittering arc at the nemet, purposely defying him. The humans murmured, eyes glittering like the metal itself. The ax passed within an inch of Kta and of the next man.
“Choose!” the captain cried. “You choose, starman. One nemet. We take the other two.”
The howling began to be a moan. One of the little boys shrieked in glee and ran in, striking all three nemet with a stick.
“Which one?” the captain asked again.
Kurt kept his sickness from his face, saw Kta look at him, saw the nemet’s eyes sending a desperate and angry message to him, which he ignored, looking at the captain.
“The one on the left,” Kurt said. “That one. Their leader.”
One of the two nemet died before nightfall. The execution was hi the center of camp, and there was no way Kurt could avoid watching from beginning to end, for the captain’s narrow eyes were on him more than on the nemet, watching his least reaction. Kurt kept his own eyes unfocused as much as possible, and his arms folded, so that his trembling was not evident.
The nemet was a brave man, and his last reasoned act was a glance at Kta, not desperate, but seeking approval of him. Kta was standing, hands bound. The lord of Elas gave
the man a steadfast look, as if he had given him an order on the deck of their own ship, and the nemet died with what dignity the Tamurlin afforded him. They made a butchery of it, and the Tamurlin howled with excitement until the man no longer reacted to any torment. Then they finished him with an ax. As the blade came down, Kta’s self-control came near to breaking. He wept, his face as impassive as ever, and the Tamurlin pointed at him and laughed.
After that the captain ordered Kurt taken to his own shelter. There he questioned him, threatening him with not quite the conviction to make good the threats, accusing him over and over of lying. The captain was a shrewd man. At times there would come a light of cunning into his hair-shrouded eyes, and he doggedly refused to be led off on a tangent. Constantly he dragged the questioning back to the essential points, quoting from the versified Articles and the Writings of the Founders to argue against Kurt’s claims.
His name was Renols, or something which closely resembled that common Hanan name, and he was the only educated man in the camp. His power was his knowledge, and the moment Renols ceased to believe, or ceased, to fear, then Renols could dispose of Kurt with lies of his own. The captain was a pragmatist, capable of it; Kurt was well certain he was capable of it.
The tent reeked of fire, of sweat, of the curious pungent leaf the Tamurlin chewed. One of his women lay hi the corner against the wall, taking the leaves one by one. Her eyes had a fevered look. Sometimes the captain reached for one of the slim gray leaves and chewed at it halfheartedly. It perfumed the breath. Sweat began to bead on his temples. He grew calmer.’
He offered the bowl of leaves to Kurt, insisting. At last Kurt took one, judiciously tucked it hi his cheek, whole and unbruised. Even so, it burned his mouth and spread a numbness that began to frighten him.
If he became drunk with it, he could say something he would not say; his capacity for the drug might be far less than Renols’.
“When,” asked Renols, “will the Ship come?”
“I told you. There’s machinery in my own ship. Let me in there and I can call my captain.”
Renols chewed and stared at him with his thick brows contracted. A dangerous look smoldered hi his eyes. But he took another leaf and held out the bowl to Kurt a second time. His hands were stubby-fingered, the nails broken, the knuckles ridged with cut-scars.