The Seascape Tattoo by Larry Niven Page A

you say something?”
    Aros’s smile widened. What the hell did this bastard find amusing?
    Fandy’s nervous giggle floated up from behind them, and Neoloth realized that he had given Aros an unanticipated advantage in their little war of words and wills.
    They continued riding east. Over the next two hours, the lines of native riders descended from the ridges and converged upon them, first flanking and then pulling ahead and around, finally facing them.
    Aros raised his right hand, palm forward. The universal gesture of I hold no weapon. “I send greetings to Chief Sky Mountain,” he said in their language.
    â€œTell him you bring greetings from our queen,” Neoloth said, and Aros repeated the words in the tongue of the desert people.
    â€œI am Great Elk.” The bare-chested warrior did not change his expression. Their brown faces were streaked with paint; their hair, dressed with feathers. Their naked torsos looked hard and strong. Neoloth noted that the dust devils at their horse’s sides swirled more slowly as they spoke but never seemed to dissipate. The horses themselves were a bit odd, watching with a greater level of attention than he was used to in ordinary mares and stallions. And, further, the heat shimmered around their flanks as if they were horse-shaped statues filled with molten metal. “Our treaties forbid your entry into our lands without parlay,” he said.
    Aros translated his words.
    â€œWe are here to parlay,” Neoloth replied. “We did not hide ourselves and do not conceal our intentions now.”
    â€œWhat,” the second warrior asked, “do you want of us?” His spear was tipped with blue and white feathers of some bird Neoloth didn’t recognize. They rustled in the wind, which was strange, because he felt no wind.
    â€œWe seek the grave of one of our children,” Neoloth said. “Slain by robbers,” he added hastily. “Not at the hands of your people.”
    Great Elk’s eyes narrowed as Aros translated the words. “When did this happen?”
    â€œAlmost twenty years ago,” Neoloth said.
    Great Elk nodded. “Evil men who hid in our lands. They were our enemies as well.”
    â€œWhat happened to them?” Aros asked on his own.
    â€œWe turned them into toads.”
    â€œNice,” Aros said. He turned to Neoloth. “You’d look good in green,” he said, but declined to explain his comment.
    â€œHis convoy was hijacked,” the wizard said. “For years we have not known if he lived or died. At last our seers found his burial place. Now we know he perished and wish to pay honor.”
    He paused as Aros translated. There was still no wind. The feathers twitched in still air.
    â€œYou seek only his bones?” Great Elk asked.
    â€œOnly his bones.”
    â€œWait,” he said. Great Elk pulled his people back. Their spears leaned against each other, and Neoloth thought he saw the tiny carved heads atop them moving slightly. Joining in the discussion, perhaps.
    The warriors argued among themselves. Then Great Elk shook his head and returned to the wizard and the warrior. “You may pass. We give you three days. Honor your dead,” he said. “And then … leave our lands.”
    â€œThank you,” Neoloth and Aros said.
    For the first time, Great Elk smiled. The smile was cold. Then he spoke in Lemurian, the root language of Quillian, and a language Neoloth understood. “We are not fools. We know that you may be lying.”
    â€œThen why are you letting us through?” Aros asked, without bothering to translate.
    Great Elk’s smile deepened. “Because in these lands, lying brings its own pain.”
    The riders wheeled their horses about and left them.
    â€œThey spoke our language,” Neoloth said.
    Aros smiled. “Of course.”
    â€œAnd you knew that?” Behind him, Fandy was snickering again. Damn.
    â€œI