Things could be worse, however. He had the serum formula on him. The lifter's wreck would probably look like a normal crash. Finally, the soldier seemed to have been acting on his own, hoping for Detcharn's reward. There was a reasonable chance that Detcharn did not know and would not learn of Feragga's scheme until it was too late.
He'd have to move fast, though. That meant no searching for Moshra's body. She would have to lie out in the wind and the rain. His daughter would be a prey to scavengers until she rotted. His daughter-
A spasm of dreadful rage knotted Blade's stomach, and he vomited himself empty. When he'd wiped his mouth, he stood up and called Cheeky to him. The feather-monkey jumped up onto Blade's shoulder in silence. He sensed even more strongly than before that his master was not at peace with the world.
As he set off, it occurred to Blade that he had one more card to play if he had to. If he found a Tribe who didn't shoot first and ask questions afterward, he could claim to be an enemy of Doimar. That might win him a safe-conduct through their lands, although he doubted if they would take him all the way to Kaldak. New enemies didn't always wipe out the memory of old wars.
And he'd certainly be telling the truth! He was an enemy of Doimar-above all, of one particular Doimari. If he'd known that he was going to die the next minute, Blade would have gone gladly if he could have spent his last moments killing his monstrous son.
Indeed, that goal might even be achieved if Blade could persuade, if not the Kaldakans then at least the Tribes, that they must take action against their enemy. Someone-anyone-had to see to it that every last rocket of Detcharn-and Detcharn himself-was destroyed.
Chapter 19
Shangbari was the best hunter of the Red Cat Tribe. Others beside himself said this was so, and the sacred four-legged Red Cats gave no signs against it. So he was willing to believe it.
This meant he had to appear invincible in battle, always successful in finding game for the cooking fires of the Tribe, and afraid of nothing at all. Most of the time he succeeded, and he was able to hide the times he did not. Also, after the Doimar sky-killers came recently and slew so many of the Red Cats, Ikhnan the Chief forbade challenges and duels among the warriors.
«We have hardly the strength to keep the Red Cats from becoming a dead Tribe, like the Salamanders, the Grass Eaters, and the Tree Folk,» Ikhnan said. «We have none to waste in fighting battles over small things.»
«My reputation is not a small thing,» Shangbari replied.
«It certainly will be very small, if you fight any duels over it,» said Ikhnan. «I will see to that.»
Shangbari took the threat seriously. Although Ikhnan was no more than twenty-one hunting seasons old, he was wise as a Grandfather and fearless as a Death Pig. What he promised, he would do, or die trying-and if Shangbari caused Ikhnan's death, he would not live to gain anything by it. The very women and children of the Tribe would tear his flesh from his bones and feed it to the sacred Red Cats, if the beasts did not turn up their black noses at it.
It did not help either that the Kaldakans and the Doimari between them had slain or driven away much of the game. Shangbari still brought back more than any other hunter, but not as much as before. Often it was not enough to feed all the hungry mouths in the villages of the Red Cats.
However, it was neither his reputation nor Ikhnan's nor the shortage of game making Shangbari uneasy today. As he walked softly under a sullen gray sky, his rifle held ready, he would have given much to know what kind of man he was tracking. Not knowing this was what made him uneasy.
Once he'd seen a footprint, where the man had stepped on soft ground without knowing it. The footprint showed a City boot, whether of Kaldak or of Doimar Shangbari could not tell. That should mean a City man, for the Tribes had never taken to City clothing as they had to City weapons.
Yet he'd seen only that one footprint. No City man had ever left so few traces of his passage. Only a hunter of the Tribes could do that. In fact, Shangbari wondered if the man had left the footprint deliberately, as a sign for those tracking him. Did he want to be found? Was he mad? Or was he playing with Shangbari like a Red Cat with a mouse?
Shangbari drove that last thought from his mind. Soberly, he had to admit that he was closer to losing the trail than he'd ever been with a human quarry. Death Pigs were shrewder than a man in covering their trails, although if tracked down they could be trusted to charge headlong. It was a good thing that Death Pigs had no hands to hold rifles or even spears. Otherwise they would rule the land, not men.
Shangbari stopped at the edge of a field of long grass sloping down to a little stream. He raised his head and sniffed the air, then spread his ears as wide as he could. Any scent, any sound from his opponent would be more than he'd had for some time. As he sniffed and listened, he watched the field and the trees bordering it on three sides. He did not expect to see anything, but perhaps he could discover some of the places where the man had not gone. He felt foolish at hoping for so little, he, Shangbari, hunter of the Red Cats, but-
He heard the sound, and a heartbeat later knew that it was behind him. He had no chance to do anything with this knowledge. A knee crashed into the small of Shangbari's back. A leg scythed his feet out from under him. And an arm like the branch of a great tree went around his throat, choking off his breath. Something went yeeeeep! shrilly in his ear.
He did have one last thought before he heard nothing more: had he been tracking a wizard, who could send his body from one place to another without touching the ground? Or had he even been tracking something which was not a man at all?
When Shangbari's senses returned, he was lying on his back in the grass, bound hand and foot. The bonds were snug but not painful, as if his captor wished him helpless but not uncomfortable.
At least it was good to think that. A wizard would not have needed ropes to tie a captive. A nonhuman or a hostile Tribesman would have probably killed him outright. So his captor might be none of these things.
Or at least he could hope so.
Shangbari studied his captor. He was certainly a City man, from the way he dressed, but he was paler-skinned than anyone Shangbari had ever seen. He was also half a head taller than the hunter, with muscles in proportion. Certainly he'd have needed no wizardry to bring Shangbari down. He had a Doimari Oltec rifle across his knees, and he was munching on a piece of Newtec food from a pack beside him.
Shangbari's rifle also lay beside him, apparently undamaged. Then Shangbari saw who or what was sitting by the rifle, which started him thinking about wizardry again.
The creature was shaped like a man, except for its tail, but it was only about two feet high. Also, though it had no sign of wings, it was covered with feathers like a bird. The City man might be human, but surely his companion was not. Might the companion be the wizard, and the City man his servant? That frightened Shangbari all over again.
Then he remembered tales of the Little Men, who lived fat in the south after the Burning Time. It was said that some Tribes had made friends with them, although no one living had ever met a man from one of those Tribes-or one of the Little Men, either. To be sure, the Little Men had been covered with fur, not feathers. But perhaps the tales did not tell everything about them?
Yes. It made sense. This was a man from the lost Tribes. He and the Little Man had come north, seeking-what? Impossible to guess. At least they had not killed him as he lay helpless.