Sos the Rope

CHAPTER TWELVE

"Is this the tribe of Sol of all weapons?" Sos inquired. He had not waited for the arrival of Tor's subordinate at the Pit camp, much as he would have enjoyed being on hand for the contest of wits between Tor and the perceptive Pit strategist. It would probably be a standoff. It was Sol he was after, and now that he knew where to find him no further delay was tolerable.

As it happened, he had met Tor on the way, and obtained updating and redirection-but it was hard to believe, even so, that this was the proper camp.

Warriors were practicing everywhere, none of them familiar. Yet this was the only major group in the arena, so the directions had not been mistaken. Had he traveled a month only to encounter Sol's conqueror? He hoped not. The camp was well disciplined, but he did not like its atmosphere.

"Speak to Vit the Sword," the nearest man told him.

Sos searched out the main tent and asked for Vit. "Who are you?" the tent guard, a swarthy dagger, demanded, eying the bird on his shoulder.

"Step into the circle and I will show you who I am!" Sos said angrily. He had had enough of such bureaucracy.

The guard whistled and a man detached himself from practice and trotted over. "This intruder wishes to make himself known in the circle," the dagger said contemptuously, "Oblige him."

The man turned to study Sos.

"Mok the Morningstar!" Sos cried.

Mok started. "Sos! You have come back-and Stupid, too! I did not recognize you, in all that muscle!"

"You know this man?" the guard inquired.

"Know him! This is Sos-the man who built this tribe! Sol's friend!"

The guard shrugged indifferently. "Let him prove it in the circle."

"You nuts? He doesn't carry a-" Mok paused. "Or do you, now?"

Sos had his rope about him, but the man had not recognized it as a weapon. "I do. Come, I'll demonstrate."

"Why not try it against the staff or sticks?" Mok suggested diplomatically. "My weapon is-"

"Is dangerous? You seem to lack faith in my prowess."

"Oh, no," Mok protested, obviously insincere. "But you know how it is with the star. One accident-"

Sos laughed. "You force me to vindicate myself. Come- I'll make a believer out of you."

Mok accompanied him to the circle, ill at ease. "If anything happens-"

"This is my weapon," Sos said, hefting a coil of rope. "If you are afraid to face it, summon a better man."

Several neighboring men chuckled, and Mok had to take the circle. Sos knew the jibe had been unfair; the man had wanted to spare him from possible mutilation. Mok was no coward, and since he was still with the tribe, his skill was sufficient too. But it was important that the rope prove itself as a real weapon; men like Mok would not believe in Sos's new status as a warrior otherwise.

Friendship ended in the circle, always. Mok lifted his morningstar and whirled the spiked ball in an overhead spiral. He had to attack, since the weapon could not be used defensively. Sos had never faced the star before and discovered that it was a peculiarly frightening experience. Even the faint tune of air passing the circling spikes was ominous.

Sos backed away, treating the flying ball with utmost respect. He fired a length of rope at it, caught the metal chain, fouled it, and yanked ball, chain and handle out of Mok's hand. Mok stood there staring, as Bog had done before him. The spectators laughed.

"If any of you think you can do better, step inside," Sos invited.

A sticker was quick to accept the challenge-and as quick to fall to the throttle-loop. This time it was Mok who laughed. "Come-you must see Vit now!"

A group of men continued to stand around the vacated circle, murmuring as Sos left. They had never witnessed such a performance.

"I'm glad you're back," Mok confided as they came to the tent. "Things aren't the same around here since-" he broke off as they approached the guard.

This time there was no trouble about entry. Mok ushered him into the leader's presence.

"Yes?' Vit was a tall slender, dour man of middle years who looked familiar. The name, also, jogged an image. Then Sos placed him: the sworder that Dal the Dagger had humiliated, back in the first full-fledged tribal encounter. Times had certainly changed!

"I am Sos the Rope. I have come to talk to Sol."

"By what right?"

Mok started to explain, but Sos had had enough. He knew Vit recognized him and was simply placing difficulties in his way. "By the right of my weapon! Challenge me in the circle before you attempt to balk me!" It was good to be able to assume this posture again; the weapon made all the difference. Sos realized that he was being less than reasonable, and enjoyed the feeling.

Vit merely looked at him. "Are you that rope who disarmed Bog the club, five weeks ago in the east?"

"I am." Sos was beginning to appreciate why Vit had risen to such a position of power so rapidly: he had complete command of his temper and knew his business.

Apparently supremacy in the circle was no longer a requirement for leadership.

"Sol will see you tomorrow."

"Tomorrow!"

"He is absent on business today. Accept our hospitality tonight."

Sol away on business? He did not like the smell of that. Sol should have no reason to recruit warriors alone, any more-not with ten tribes to manage, the nucleus of his empire. He could not be inspecting any of those tribes, either; the nearest was at least a week away.

A woman emerged from a compartment and walked slowly toward them. She was dressed in a breathtakingly snug sarong and wore very long, very black hair.

It was Sola.

Sos started toward her, only to be blocked by Vit. "Eyes off that Woman! She belongs to the master!"

Sola looked up and recognized him. "Sos!" she cried then checked herself. "I know this man," she said formally to Vit. "I will speak to him."

"You 'Will not speak to him." Vit stood firmly between them.

Sos gripped his rope, furious, but Sola backed away and retreated into her compartment. Mok tugged his arm, and he controlled himself and wheeled about. Something was certainly wrong, but this was not the moment for action It would not be wise to betray his former intimacy with Sola.

"All the old stalwarts are gone," Mok said sadly as the emerged. "Tyl, Tor, Say, Tun-hardly any of the ones we built the badlands camp with are here today."

"What happened to them?" He knew already, but wanted more information. The more he saw of this tribe, the less he liked it. Was Sol still in control, or had he become a figurehead? Had there been some private treachery to incapacitate him?

"They command the other tribes. Sol trusts no one you did not train. We need you again, Sos. I wish we were back in the badlands, the way it was before."

"Sol seems to trust Vit."

"Not to command. This is Sol's own tribe, and he runs it himself, with advisors. Vit just handles the details."

"Such as keeping Sola penned up?"

"Sol makes him do it. She is allowed to see no one while he is away. Sol would kill Vit if-but I told you, everything is different."

Sos agreed, profoundly disturbed. The camp was efficient, but the men were strangers to him. He recognized no more than half a dozen of the hundred or so he saw. It was a strange pass when the closest companion he could find in Sol's tribe was Mok-whose dealing with him had always been brief before. This was not, in fact, a tribe at all; it was a military camp, of the type he had read about, with a military martinet in charge. The esprit de corps he had fostered was gone.

He accepted a small tent on the outskirts, alone, for the night. He was troubled, but still did not want to act until he understood the ramifications of what he had observed. Evidently the dour Vit had been put in charge because he followed orders without imagination and was probably completely trustworthy in that respect. But why the need?

Something had gone drastically wrong, and he could not believe that his own absence could account for it. Tor's tribe was hardly like this. What had taken the spirit out of Sol's drive for empire?

A woman came quietly to the tent. "Bracelet?" she inquired, her voice muffled, her face hidden in the dusk.

"No!" he snapped, turning his eyes from the hourglass figure that showed in provocative silhouette against the distant evening fires.

She tugged open the mesh and kneeled to show her face.

"Would you shame me, Sos?"

"I asked for no woman," he said, not looking at her.

"Go away. No offense."

She did not move. "Greensleeves," she murmured.

His head jerked up. "Sola!"

"It was never your habit to make me wait so long for recognition," she said with wry reproof. "Let me in before someone sees." She scrambled inside and refastened the mesh. "I changed places with the girl assigned, so I think we're safe. But still-"

"What are you doing here? I thought you weren't-"

She stripped and crawled into his bedroll. "You must have been exercising!"

"Not any more."

"Oh, but you have! I never felt such a muscular body."

"I mean we're not- lovers any more. If you won't meet me by day, I won't meet you by night."

"Why did you come, then?' she inquired, placing against him a body that had become magnificent. Her pregnancy of the year before had enhanced her physical attributes.

"I came to claim you honorably."

"Claim me, then! No man but you has touched me since we first met."

"Tomorrow. Give back his bracelet and take mine, publicly."

"I will," she said. "Now-"

"No!"

She drew back and tried to see his face in the dark. "You mean it."

"I love you. I came for you. But I will have you honorably."

She sighed. "Honor is not quite- that simple, Sos." But she got up and began putting on her clothing.

"What has happened here? Where is Sol? Why are you hiding from people?"

"You left us, Sos. That's what happened. You were the heart of us."

"That doesn't make sense. I had to leave. You were having the baby. His son."

"No."

"That was the price of you. I will not pay it again. This time it has to be my son, conceived upon my bracelet."

"You don't understand anything!" she cried in frustration.

He paused, knowing the mystery to be yet unfathomed. "Did it die?"

"No! That's not the point. That-oh, you stupid, stupid clubhead! You-" She choked over her own emotion -and faced away from him, sobbing.

She was more artful, too, than she had been, he thought. He did not yield. He let her run down, unmoving.

Finally she wiped her face and crawled out of the tent. He -was alone.