"My Lord, I ask one favour for Malcolm." Jessa's clear voice rang out above the muted buzz of speculation.
Bloody hell, love, I appreciate the thought but I'm not sure I could manage right now…
Presumably everyone else thought it was too serious an occasion for ribald humour. Even Thais didn't grin.
"The woman may speak," said Rakhor, after glancing at Briai.
She looked at me. "He has a right to go to judgement wearing the clothes of his own people. I ask that he be allowed to dress himself accordingly to go before his god."
Fabulous, I thought automatically. She's practically told them all she expects me to get pounded to a pulp.
More reasoned thoughts took over. That might be what it sounded like, but I'd bet my life – I was going to bet my life – that there was more to it than that.
I swallowed once or twice, trying to get saliva into a mouth that suddenly felt completely dry. "It would be in …" Damnation, I couldn't think what the words for 'accordance with the traditions' might be, so I tried again, going for something less ambitious by my standards. "It is a right thing among my people."
Briai nodded. "Then it shall be so, for your courage is not in [any doubt]."
I supposed I appreciated the compliment, but 'courageous' was the last label I'd have attached to me as I followed Jessa out of the tent. Quite frankly, if I'd thought I had a prayer of success or had anywhere to escape to, I'd have been tempted to make a run for the tethered horses in the nearest picket-line, grab one and do my best to make a getaway on it. If I fell off and broke my neck, at least that would be quick and painless. The chances of my even making it as far as the picket-line, however, were negligible.
There were dozens of people around us; most of those of the villagers who hadn't been eligible to participate had been waiting outside, eager to know the verdict, and I was the centre of attention even as some of the crowd began to eddy towards the grazing-grounds, evidently anxious to secure good places from which to enjoy the anticipated slaughter. Many actually hurried to get onto horseback, so they could have a grandstand view.
Having come to the decision, there was no reason to delay the ordeal; I wondered briefly if there was any point in mentioning the human tradition about the condemned man being entitled to a hearty meal, but decided not to. For one thing, I didn't feel particularly hungry, and for another, any food I ate would slow me down. Speed wouldn't save me, my strength in comparison to Syach's was a joke, and I had nothing that approximated to teeth that could tear a man's face off or hooves that could split a skull like a rotten melon. All I had was my intelligence and my agility. I was put in mind forcibly of a film clip I'd seen once of a seal being hunted by a big shark; in terms of mass and weaponry the seal was hopelessly outclassed, but the desperate animal had just kept turning, turning, using its superior agility in the water to keep itself perpetually just one leap away from those teeth. It wasn't much of a comfort, especially in view of the fact that I would have much more than Syach's teeth to contend with, but it was all I could hang on to as I trudged towards Jessa's tent to don my funeral finery.
Atreh was still beside me, and Bihiv pushed his way to us as we reached the tent, his handsome young face drawn with anxiety. "Syach?" was all he said, but there was a world of apprehension in it.
"We will pray to the gods for a just judgement," replied Atreh shortly. Then, as Bihiv made to follow Jessa into the tent, he put a hand on his arm, stopping him. "Give them a little privacy."
He glanced at me. "[Would that] I could do more. If you fall, I shall see your body honourably dealt with."
I nodded, and followed Jessa into the tent, letting the flap fall behind me.
I'd sort of envisaged a quick strip-off and cuddle among the furs (I definitely wouldn't be up for anything more), but was perplexed to see her delving among her bundles of medicinal stuff instead, with the desperation of Father Christmas looking for the missing ignition key for the sleigh at half eleven on Christmas Eve.
The bundle with my uniform in it was already open, flung onto the bed.
"Just the outer… suit," she said, tearing open yet another roll of cured skin containing a dozen more seemingly anonymous little packets of cloth. "Not the inner. Not yet."
Wondering, I shed my villager's clothes and pulled on my Starfleet briefs and my jumpsuit. It felt strange, and I wondered if this was just because I didn't have my regulation vest on, or whether I truly was coming to accept that this part of my life was over and gone.
As I unfolded the black inner shirt – presumably this would be wanted eventually – my phase pistol slid out onto the furs, and I picked it up, assailed by a terrible temptation. The People didn't know what it was; they had no idea what it could do. With this in my hand, I could take down a score of Syachs in under twenty seconds. I didn't even have to kill; though the 'stun' setting was designed for a target with an approximately human-sized mass, I was confident that even if it didn't knock the stallion out cold it would definitely induce some doubt in his mind as to whether taking me on was such a good idea after all.
If he'd been a wild animal, I'd have done it without a qualm, without a moment's hesitation. But all sorts of questions rose up in my mind about what would follow if I did. How would the tribe react, seeing me conquer their 'god horse' with what they would undoubtedly ascribe to sorcery? I'd seen for myself how devastated Jessa had been by the idea of someone putting a rope around his neck and giving him a few licks with a whip. How that would compare with his being dropped in mid-gallop by a blast from a phase pistol as he thundered into the attack…
I might save myself from being killed by the horse, but the fate that would be reserved for someone who'd perpetrated that level of blasphemy on their god would probably make trampling seem downright civilised by comparison. And perhaps even worse than that would be the damage to the People themselves. I'd be repaying their hospitality, their friendship and to some degree their trust by an act so base that I doubted they even had a concept for it. But when I was through, they'd have one all right. Malcolm Reed, the man they all thought of as 'honourable', would take their universe down to a whole new level with one squeeze of a trigger.
No. Even if I could have lived by it, I couldn't have lived with it.
With a sigh I laid the pistol down again. I'd removed the power cell some while ago and hidden it in a hole I'd dug in the ground in a corner of the tent, just in case of accidents. I could have retrieved it in a moment, but I already knew it wasn't going to be needed.
Wistfully I took out my communicator and glanced at it. No point trying to contact anybody; there was nobody out there to save me.
"Thanks be to the Mother!" By this time, Jessa seemed to have disembowelled everything in the tent, but the joy in her face as she sat up brandishing a thick roll of faded linen seemed out of all proportion to the case.
"Very nice," I said politely.
She seemed a bit too overcome by the occasion to concentrate on choosing words I could understand, but the response had definite overtones of exasperation with my denseness.
A lot of her treatments involved a base ointment (the People's equivalent of goose-fat) into which additional ingredients were mixed as required. She snatched up a bowl of this ointment she'd been working on the previous day, and rolled open the linen to display a bunch of extremely withered-looking ferny stuff, which she immediately crumbled into the bowl – I noticed she didn't touch it with her fingers, just broke it up in the cloth and poured it from it – and began mixing like mad. Then, as soon as it was all broken up, she brought it over to me and started slapping it onto my bare chest with the mixing-spoon.
Almost immediately, the skin under it started to sting like hell, so that I almost recoiled. "What the…"
"Keep your hands away from it!" she hissed at me, spreading the evil stuff stiff further. "Now put the shirt on!"
The last thing I wanted to do was put my (relatively clean) undershirt on top of that noxious goo, but her glare told me I'd better do it if I knew what was good for me. So with the utmost reluctance I pulled on the shirt and eased it gingerly down over my torso, keeping it stretched away from my skin till the last possible minute, when I had to let it fall into place.
God, it felt absolutely disgusting.
"Now the suit! And do not touch the shirt with your hands!" she commanded.
"Yes, ma'am," I muttered. Doing my best to ignore the sensation of most of the front of my body doing its damnedest to spontaneously combust, I pulled up the top half of the suit and pulled up the zipper.
If I'd thought this might help matters, I'd been seriously misguided. The hotter it got, the more the ointment itched and burned. The stronger the smell became, too; it was now prickling my corneas slightly, though it didn't seem to have any effect on my eyesight.
"Now Malcolm is LefTenAnt once more," she said, standing back and looking at me with beautiful brown eyes that were suddenly brimming with tears. "I will pray the Goddess that it is enough."
With an effort, I smoothed out the grimace. She was upset enough without me pulling faces. "What have you put on me?" I asked very quietly.
She glanced around the empty tent. "Old Healer once told me of this plant," she whispered. "Rare, very rare. Not to eat – [poisonous]. But it has a name that may save you."
I glanced around too, as though the walls had ears. "So what's it called?"
"Horsebane."