Mariners of Gor

Chapter Thirty-Six

It was now four days following the docking of the Pani ship, the River Dragon, and the stranger and I, invited by Captain Nakamura and the harbor master, Demetrion, who now seemed on splendid terms with the captain, perhaps because commerce fosters affability, were in one of the great warehouses adjacent to the high piers. Its light was dim, but it was natural light, flowing in through a large number of high, narrow, barred windows. Slaves in transit are often kept in places with such windows, that they cannot see outside. Such windows, too, of course, are more difficult of access, both from the inside and outside. In the warehouse, on several long tables, set in rows, stretching back, toward the rear of the room, were spread varieties of goods, and such goods, indeed, overflowing, found their way to mats and cloths spread on the floor, amongst the tables. The Pani had brought much with them, for selling and trading, taken from the many officially sealed, watertight compartments of the River Dragon, and local Merchants, who swarmed about, within, moving from table to table, and to the floor displays, were interested, as well, in buying and selling. I had gathered that the movements of the forces of Lord Temmu were much restricted in the islands, with the result that an overseas trade, as it might slip through the blockades of Lord Yamada, might provide an access to goods otherwise less available, in particular, weaponry, missiles, cloth, leather, hemp, siege stores, tarn tackle, and such. For example, exquisite Pani ceramics, intricate carvings, and dyed silks, produced in the castle shops of Lord Temmu might bring silver in Brundisium, and be sold for gold in Ar and Turia, and the silver from Brundisium, in Brundisium, of course, might be exchanged for sinew, arrow points, fletching, larmas, tospits, sa-tarna, and such. The voyage of the River Dragon then, I took it, was a pioneer voyage, which might inaugurate routes of trade and perhaps open conduits of diplomacy. When land roads are closed, Thassa’s roads beckon. What cannot be secured locally may be fetched from abroad. It was a small thing, of course, a single voyage, but it is not unusual that the explorer is followed by the Merchant, just as it is not impossible that the Merchant might be followed by the soldier. Such a voyage may take several months for a single ship, but if a hundred ships are making such voyages day by day, one may well arrive daily in one port or another. One supposed that Lord Yamada, in his less-straitened circumstances, would be less motivated to seek foreign goods, but, too, one supposed, if he were once apprised of tarns, as presumably he soon would be, and might now be, he would be eager to supply himself with so valuable a military arm. One could conceive then, eventually, of the navies of warring shoguns extending their concerns beyond their embattled local waters, and beginning to compete for trade routes and access to distant ports.

Another commodity the Pani were interested in buying, I learned, was women. Apparently fair-skinned female slaves were rare in the islands, and often figured, amongst other gifts, in the attempts to woo political alliances. Too, one supposed they would not do badly off the block, as well. For example, a girl who might go for less than a silver tarsk in Brundisium might, presumably as something rather in the nature of an exotic slave, certainly a rare one, bring the equivalent in local currency of two or three such tarsks in the islands.

“The most beautiful of all female slaves on all Gor are sold in Brundisium,” Demetrion assured Nakamura, the captain of the River Dragon. Certainly this was false, as the captain doubtless surmised, but that is not to deny that some very fine slaves, the equals of any anywhere, are occasionally purchased from Brundisium blocks.

“Ahh,” said Captain Nakamura, politely.

This boast of Demetrion, on behalf of shapely, quality merchandise available in Brundisium, brought to my mind, naturally enough, a particular slave, one whom I would have liked to purchase, but could not afford. To be sure, she had not been bought in Brundisium, but in Market of Semris. On the other hand, the sales barns of Market of Semris are not far from Brundisium, and some fellows from Brundisium like to frequent them, looking for bargains, in particular, paga girls, dancers, and such.

The stranger and I, it may be recalled, had been invited to the warehouse by Demetrion, the harbor master, and Captain Nakamura, captain of the River Dragon, now wharfed nearby. I have little doubt that this invitation, though issued in the name of both the harbor master and the Pani captain, came about as a result of the captain’s request. Demetrion knew little more of the stranger, the Cosian, Callias of Jad, than the fact that he may have cost the harbor, or, better, its administration, a number of golden tarn disks, of double weight. But, even so, a single such disk had been welcome. Demetrion knew me by sight, but by little more, from the registry. The captain, for some reason, had wished for the stranger to stay on board the River Dragon, but, as I would not be allowed to do so, as well, the stranger declined the offer.

“He offered me money, when I had no money,” he told the captain, “he offered me lodging, when I had no lodging.”

“He is not Pani,” said the captain.

“Neither am I,” said the stranger.

“But,” said the captain, “you were of the ship.”

“He has been seen with me,” said the stranger. “If I am in danger, so, too, is he.”

“That is possible,” said the captain.

“Give me a sword,” said the stranger.

A blade was brought, with its shoulder strap and sheath. It was not a Pani sword, but a gladius, a weapon with which, I took it, the stranger would be familiar.

“Do not sell it,” said the captain.

The stranger smiled, and turned to me, who stood at the foot of the gangway. “Would you have a guest?” he asked.

“Welcome,” I said.

My name was given to the captain. “The harbor office will know his residence,” said the stranger.

“Stay on board,” said the captain.

But the stranger had already descended the gangplank.

“My quarters are near,” I told him.

“Excellent,” he said, looking about himself.

Demetrion, the harbor master, had been with the captain, the stranger and myself, on the floor of the large, crowded warehouse, but Demetrion now excused himself, being anxious, one supposed, to do some looking about, and trading himself.

“You wished to see me?” said the stranger to Nakamura, captain of the River Dragon.

Captain Nakamura glanced to me, politely, but the stranger encouraged him, saying that he might speak in my presence.

“I am pleased that you are armed,” said the captain.

“I have not sold the blade yet,” said the stranger.

“I would not do so, if I were you,” said the captain.

“I have remained in seclusion for four days,” said the stranger, “and am now invited to the warehouse.”

“We cannot remain indefinitely in Brundisium,” said the captain. “Each day may be important in the islands. The first day we docked, I sent four men forth to locate the oarsman, Cineas. Unfortunately, he has eluded them.”

“Eluded?” asked the stranger.

“Yes,” said the captain. “They were sent to kill him.”

“Why?” asked the stranger.

“You will recall the attempted desertion, which you did something to delay, and may have fatally impaired, at the gate. Its leader or leaders were not in evidence. The oarsman, Tereus, was a figurehead in the matter, if that, and probably more of a dupe than anything else, though one willing enough, one supposes. Surely he was not alone. Many armsmen were eager to escape the islands. Suspicion, in our search for the leaders and organizers of the attempted desertion, fell naturally on armsmen, and, in particular, on those who were, or had been, high armsmen. Inquiries were conducted, contacts investigated, relationships noted. Of five groups what man had they all in common, and of those men held in common, who, in turn, had they all in common? Some seeming patterns began to emerge. More than a hundred armsmen who had attempted desertion were questioned, several unpleasantly. Most professed to know little, but many littles, compounded, may become large. Shortly, within two or three days, suspicion began to fall on a particular armsman, one named Tyrtaios, who was the liaison officer of Lord Okimoto.”

The stranger did not seem surprised at this report.

“Indeed, he was later denounced explicitly by the cripple, Rutilius of Ar, who had been succeeded in his post as liaison for Lord Okimoto by the same fellow, Tyrtaios. Too, it seems that Lord Okimoto himself had begun, days before, to suspect him, as well.”

“A personal enmity, or resentment, may have been involved there,” said the stranger. “At one time I saw them as allies, Tyrtaios and Rutilius. But Rutilius was repudiated, cast aside by Tyrtaios, after his crippling, as he was, as well, by Lord Okimoto. Rutilius, whole or incomplete, has a long memory, and is a dangerous enemy. It is possible, too, that Rutilius wished to accompany the deserters, but had not been permitted to do so. His inability to move with agility might have slowed the flight. Too, he was not popular with many armsmen. His betrayal of Tyrtaios may have been his vengeance for being discounted, and neglected, by Tyrtaios, and perhaps others, as well.”

“Although the progress of the investigation was putatively confidential,” said the captain, and largely confined to the various prison barracks, where the would-be deserters were held, this Tyrtaios seemed, somehow, to have been well apprised of how matters were proceeding. It is suspected that he was kept informed by some individual in a high place, perhaps a well-placed spy, some individual secretly in the service of Lord Yamada. In any event, on the eve of his planned arrest, he disappeared from the castle grounds, abetted in his escape by an unknown party or parties. One supposes he was given a letter of safe conduct by means of which he would make contact with, and be received by, the forces of Lord Yamada, those in the vicinity of the castle.”

“His loss could be grievous,” said the stranger, “as Tyrtaios was a high officer in the resistance, knows much of its organization, and is familiar with the defenses of the castle of Lord Temmu. He is also familiar with tarns and their possible military applications. Thus, much of the surprise value of tarns will be lost, something on which Lords Temmu, Nishida, and Okimoto have doubtless heavily counted. Perhaps most serious is the fact that many of our armsmen respect him as an astute leader, and surely favored, with him, the cause of desertion. In certain circumstances, then, it seems not unlikely they might once more look to him for leadership, and once more follow him.”

“And such a possibility,” said the captain, “would not be likely to be overlooked by Lord Yamada, or his advisors.”

“I would suppose not,” said the stranger.

“In one matter, a subtle one,” said the captain, “Tyrtaios may have erred. One suspects it is a matter connected with his vanity. Before his disappearance he left a note in his quarters, obviously intended to be discovered. It seems he had earlier anticipated that Lord Temmu would wish to have the great ship destroyed, to preclude its possible employment in an armsmen’s flight, and that some, sensing this, might attempt to save the ship, by removing it from danger. Accordingly, given this possibility, he planted one of his minions amongst the great ship’s most likely mariners, those most likely to be recruited in any attempt to save the ship.”

“This was the man, Cineas?” said the stranger.

“Yes,” said the captain. “He was to see to your death, for your role in foiling the desertion.”

“That,” smiled the stranger, “was to be my reward.”

“Your enemy,” said the captain, “the minion of Tyrtaios, was frequently at your side.”

“He seemed amiable enough,” said the stranger. “He went ashore with me at Daphna. We took ship together to Brundisium.”

“It was he, then,” I said, “who hired Assassins.”

“My men,” said the captain, “went to the Court of Assassins in Brundisium. Two had been hired, but they did not report back.”

“Nor will they,” said the stranger.

“That is known to me,” said the captain. “Their bodies were washed ashore.”

“You are in danger,” I said to the stranger. “The Assassins will come to avenge their own.”

“No,” said the captain, “at least not those of the Court of Brundisium, unless more coin is put forth. Vendetta is not their way. Their fellows took fee and failed to earn it. They are not to be avenged. They failed. They are disgraced. They are no longer of the Court.”

“Cineas,” said the stranger, “may not even know they failed.”

“He must know,” I said.

“In any event,” said the captain, “my men, amongst whom is Tatsu, perhaps known to Callias, for he was on the great ship, arranged certain matters with the Court of Assassins.”

“I know him,” said the stranger.

“What matters?” I asked the captain.

“Two of the black caste were hired to seek out Cineas, and slay him,” said the captain. “I do not think they have yet found him.”

“What was the fee?” asked the stranger.

“A silver tarsk, each,” said the captain.

“Why would Tyrtaios leave such a message in his quarters, pertaining to these things?” I asked.

“Gloating, one supposes,” said the captain.

“But he warned us,” I said.

“He did not think so,” said the captain. “He thought merely to inform us, too late, of his cruel scheme. The great ship was gone. How could word reach Callias in time to warn him? The engine was in place, and irremediably in motion. The missile was in flight, and beyond interception.”

“The cove was empty,” said the stranger. “He had no way to anticipate, nor would he later to forestall, the voyage of the River Dragon.”

“We feared we would be too late,” said the captain.

“Assassins now seek Cineas?” said the stranger.

“The dagger has been painted,” said the captain. “Inquiries are being made.”

“It seems then,” I said to the stranger, “that you have nothing to fear.”

“My men, as well,” said the captain, “still seek Cineas.”

“He is doubtless now well beyond the gates of Brundisium,” I said.

“He may not know he is pursued,” said the captain.

“When one learns that,” said the stranger, “that one is sought, by the black caste, it is often too late.”

I recalled the Assassins, at the tavern, some nights ago.

“In any event,” said the captain to the stranger, “I would not yet sell my sword.”

“I understand,” said the stranger.

“The profit involved in such a transaction,” said the captain, “may be considerably outweighed by a possible loss.”

“True,” said the stranger.

“The war goes not well abroad,” said the captain. “Each day may be important. I must thus soon finish my business here.”

He looked about, at the tables, at the goods, the swarming crowd, some idlers, some guardsmen, and listened, for a time, to the murmur of bargainings. Men came and went. There were occasional shouts. Things were placed in bags, and things were removed from bags. Cases were opened, and closed. Many were the bulging wallets, and sleeve purses. Porters, too, were there, some with boxes, full and half-full, attending Merchants. Much was done with ink and paper, deliveries arranged to the ship, the coin to be paid at her side. The warehouse was a large one. I thought there must be more than six or seven hundred fellows here, coming and going. The place bustled. I thought that Demetrion would be much pleased. Seldom did a trove of such magnitude, on a single ship, as opposed to a convoy, come to Brundisium. In a couple of places on a platform, there was a harbor praetor, now indoors, in the warehouse, on his curule chair, as opposed to on the docks themselves, their usual station, who might clarify the Merchant Law, interpret it, adjudicate disputes, and make rulings. There were many caste colors in the crowd, but clearly predominating were the yellow and white, or white and gold, familiar to the Merchants. I saw two in the yellow of the Builders, and several in the blue of the Scribes, some assisting Merchants; the guardsmen, as they were on duty, were in red. I saw two Initiates in their snowy white, with their golden pans held out, to receive offerings. Commonly they do nothing for coin received, but, occasionally, they agree to bless the giver, and commend him to Priest-Kings. Among their many services, for a sufficient fee, they assure success in business, politics, and love, which successes are unfailing, it is said, unless they not be in accord with the will of the Priest-Kings. On the docks, also for a sufficient fee, they sometimes sell fair winds and clear skies, which also never fail, it is said, save when not in accord with the will of the Priest-Kings. The Pani, discovering that the Initiates were not marketing their golden pans but expected to receive something for nothing, as it were, or nothing tangible, asked them to step aside, as they were impeding the way of honest tradesmen. Many fellows, of course, do not wear their caste robes about, except when on caste business, and some don them only on formal occasions or holidays. Many free women, for example, and some men, concerned with respect to their appearance, do not care to limit their wardrobes as narrowly as their castes might seem to recommend. Several in the warehouse were in nondescript garb. I did note, however, the brown and black of the Bakers, the black and gray of the Metal Worker, the brown of the Peasants, and several others. I saw nothing which suggested the Physicians, but that, of course, did not rule out the presence in the room of those of the green caste.

“I would like, if possible,” said the captain, “to sail with the morning tide.”

“So soon?” I said.

“It would be my preference,” said the captain.

“I am pleased,” said the stranger, “to have had conveyed to me the greetings of Lord Nishida and Tarl Cabot, commander of the tarn cavalry.”

“Both wish you well,” said the captain. “Lord Nishida expresses his appreciation for your work at the gate, at the time of the attempted desertion, and both he and Tarl Cabot, the tarnsman, salute you, in the matter of the ship.”

“The matter of the ship?”

“Surely,” said the captain, “you understand that without your concern, and your initiative, without the actions which you set in motion, in particular having Lord Nishida contact Tarl Cabot, the tarnsman, in the mountains, the ship would have perished. As it was, it barely escaped the torches of Lords Temmu and Okimoto. Both Lord Nishida and Tarl Cabot, the tarnsman, were fond of the ship. It served them well. Neither wished to see it destroyed, wise though might have been its destruction to deter desertion, to convince armsmen that flight was impossible, and that they must now reconcile themselves and their fortunes to our cause.”

“But why would they have had the ship destroyed?” I asked. “Why were they not willing to merely send it away? Let it depart. Escaped, it can berth no deserters.”

“Finality, assurance, definitude, putting an end to things, the assertion of authority, the clarification of command,” said the captain.

“Still,” I protested.

“What if it should return?” said the captain.

“I see,” I said.

“As long as it existed somewhere,” said the captain, “might there not be hope of its return? Might the men not be uncertain, might they not wait, might they not keep watch, might they not be divided, might they not be unwilling to commit themselves wholeheartedly to the war?”

“I understand,” I said.

“And, if it returned,” said the stranger, “would it not again face the torches of the castle?”

“Of course,” said the captain.

That seemed obvious.

“A ship destroyed,” said the captain, “is a ship no longer to be feared.”

“True,” said the stranger.

“There would be the danger, as well,” said the captain, “that the ship might fall prize to the fleet of Lord Yamada.”

“Yes,” said the stranger. “That would be a danger.”

“I trust you now understand the motivation for its destruction, the rationality of doing away with it.”

“Of course,” said the stranger. “That is clear.”

“Very clear,” said the captain.

“What would you have done?” asked the stranger.

“I?”

“Yes.”

“I would have saved the ship, of course,” he said.

“I see,” said the stranger.

“One is of the ship,” said the captain.

“Yes,” said the stranger. “One is of the ship.”

“Friends,” I said. “I see one in the robes of the Merchants, but muchly hooded, who has entered, who looks about, but who does not seem concerned with the tables.”

“I have seen him,” said the stranger.

“You have just now noticed him?” inquired the captain of me.

“A bit ago,” I said. “I have watched him.”

“We have been waiting for him,” said Captain Nakamura.

“We put out word in the city,” said the stranger, “here and there, that Callias, of Cos, would frequent these premises sometime today.”

“This is the reason we have been summoned from my quarters?” I asked.

“Yes,” said the captain. “Forgive the precipitancy, but we have waited four days now, in our attempt to locate Cineas, and protect Callias, and time is short.”

“I am pleased,” said the stranger. “I would have it done with.”

“It is a ruse to draw Cineas forth?” I said.

“Assuming,” said the captain, “that he is still intent upon his dark mission.”

“If that is he,” I said, “it seems he is so intent.”

Captain Nakamura drew his longer blade from his sash. His feet were slightly spread; two hands were on the hilt of the weapon.

“No, my friend,” said the stranger. “I shall greet him.”

As I watched, uneasily, the stranger began to thread his way amongst the tables. He had scarcely moved, when the hooded figure, he in the robes of the Merchants, saw him, and stiffened, reacting as might a hunter, catching sight of a sleen in the shrubbery, a larl amongst rocks of the Voltai, not yet expected, yards away, just noticed. The stranger had removed his sheath and belt from across his body, and held these in his left hand. The sword, the gladius, given to him on the River Dragon, was in his right hand. I trembled, for I had seen that simplicity, that ease of grip before, neither clenched nor tight, neither loose nor careless, in a guardsman’s blade, moving toward a fellow backed against a wall. No words had been exchanged, nor needed there have been. The stranger’s blade was like an extension of his arm, seemingly as natural, and as thoughtless, as uncalculating, as the now-exposed claws on the paw of a stalking larl. The buyers and sellers, and lookers-on, the dealers, the idlers, the porters, the curious, the men in the warehouse, I think, noticed nothing of what was passing amongst them, no more than trees, or rushes bending in the wind, might have noticed the passage amongst them of some silent, patient, sinuous, stealthy form, almost invisible, certainly unnoticed, intent on its own business, which had nothing to do with theirs.

“I take it that is Cineas,” said Captain Nakamura.

“Doubtless,” I said.

“Do you not think he would have been wiser to move differently amongst the tables, to feign interest, here and there, approaching ever more closely?”

“I would suppose so,” I said.

“Too,” said the captain, “I suspect he would have done well to hood himself less closely. It would have been simpler merely to keep his face averted.”

“Until he would strike?”

“Certainly.”

“Were I he,” I said, “I would have fled the city.”

“That he has not done so,” said Captain Nakamura, “is significant.”

“How so?” I asked.

“He knows he could not reach the gate,” said the captain.

“I do not understand,” I said.

“Note two who have entered,” said Captain Nakamura, “just within the door, in shabby garb, each with his forehead obscured, by the talmit.”

Such bands are usually signs of authority, worn by foremen, leaders of work gangs, first slaves, and such, though they may serve, too, simply to keep hair back, in place, away from the eyes, protect the eyes from the running of sweat, and so on. They might, too, of course, serve to conceal any mark or sign which might be placed on the forehead. It would be rare, given the common meaning of the talmit, that of authority, to see two together, both in the talmit. To be sure, ranks can be signified by color, markings, and such.

The stranger paused some four paces from the figure in the white and gold.

The figure then threw back the hood.

“Tal, Cineas,” said the stranger. “You may withdraw. I shall not follow you. Let all be forgotten. Seek a gate. We have been of the ship.”

Cineas discarded the white and gold he had donned.

Seeing this, men suddenly began to withdraw from the vicinity. The trees, the rushes, so to speak, had suddenly become aware of what might be amongst them.

The blade which had been concealed beneath the robes of white and gold was now in evidence.

“Let all be forgotten,” said the stranger. “Go, leave the warehouse, leave the city. Seek a gate.”

“Noble Callias,” smiled Cineas, “there is no time to reach a gate.”

Cineas then lifted his sword to the stranger, in a salute, which salute was returned by the stranger.

Men backed further away.

I saw the two fellows, in the talmits, approaching.

Cineas, then, with a wild cry, rushed toward the stranger.

What happened then happened very quickly. Whereas I had gathered from the tale of the stranger that he did not much credit his skills with the blade, I now realized that they were far from indifferent. In that quick moment I understood how it was that he had held the rank of First Spear, and had been assigned duties, long ago, in the Central Cylinder of Ar itself.

He stepped away from the body.

The two fellows in shabby garments had now approached, the talmits no longer bound about their foreheads. I saw on each forehead the simple mark, the sign of the black dagger. One of them rolled the body over, and then looked to the stranger.

“You have killed him,” said the man, straightening up.

The stranger shrugged.

“Therefore,” said the man, “the killing is yours.”

Each of the men then, from their purse, removed a silver tarsk, and placed it in the hand of the stranger.

“I want no money for his blood,” said the stranger. “I would rather he had found the gate, and fled the city.”

“Still,” said one of the fellows, “the killing is yours.”

“Consider it yours,” said the stranger, “as you hurried him onto my sword.”

The two members of the Black Court of Brundisium regarded one another.

“Suppose,” said the stranger, “one in fear of you, dreading discovery each day, unwilling to accept such misery longer, or to frustrate you, put himself upon his own sword, or, in fleeing, drowned, or fell from some cliff, would the killing not be yours?”

“It would,” said one of the fellows, “and the fee might be kept.”

“Keep it then,” said the stranger, and returned the two coins, first one, and then the other.

Each returned the coin to his own purse, and then wiped from his forehead the dagger.

More than one man breathed then more easily, for those of the Black Court no longer wore the dagger.

I saw now the four Pani who had originally left the ship, the man, Tatsu, amongst them.

“We followed the fee killers, Captain,” said Tatsu, to Captain Nakamura. “We knew not the city. They did. We gave them hire. They found the quarry. Had they failed to earn their fee, our swords would have spoken.”

The long, curved blade of Captain Nakamura was still free, held in two hands.

“I think it safe, now, to sell your sword,” said Captain Nakamura to the stranger.

“I think, nonetheless,” said the stranger, “I shall keep it.”

“Good,” said Captain Nakamura. “He who surrenders the means to defend himself delivers himself into the hands of his enemies.”

“I regret the death,” said the stranger.

“Do not do so,” said Captain Nakamura. “It is unwise to leave a living enemy behind one.”

“Prepare the body,” said Captain Nakamura, to Tatsu.

“What are you going to do?” asked the stranger.

“You do not want the head, do you?” asked Captain Nakamura.

“No,” said the stranger.

It took a single, measured stroke, delivered at the base of the neck.

Men cried out, in dismay.

Captain Nakamura straightened up, holding the head in his left hand, by the hair. “The women,” he said, “will not perfume this head, nor comb its hair, nor paint its teeth black, for beauty, nor add it to the collections. This head, rather, is for Tyrtaios. It will be mounted on the wall of the castle of Lord Temmu, for ten days, and it will then be cast amongst the soldiers below, of the forces of Lord Yamada, with instructions that it be delivered to their man, Tyrtaios. He is entitled to learn the fate of his emissary, and thus we, too, will have our small joke.”

“What is going on here?” inquired Demetrion, harbor master of the port of Brundisium, followed by two guardsmen.

“An accident,” said the stranger. “This fellow fell upon my sword.”

“He was attacked,” said a man. “He but defended himself.”

“His neck fell upon your sword, as well?” said Demetrion.

“My sword,” said Captain Nakamura, “fell upon his neck.”

“You took his head,” said Demetrion.

“That is true,” said Captain Nakamura.

“Why?” said Demetrion.

“He no longer had any use for it,” said Captain Nakamura.

“Assassins are involved in this,” said a man. “We saw the daggers.”

“Aii,” whispered Demetrion, softly.

“Fee was taken,” said a man. “We saw the coins.”

The two guardsmen looked at one another.

The two of the Assassins were no longer in evidence. They had withdrawn from the warehouse.

“If there is a concern here,” said a man, “it is to be taken up as a matter between you and the Black Court.”

I saw that this did not much please Demetrion. The business of the Black Court was not one in which men lightly dabbled. In many cases one was not even sure who was, and who was not, a member of the black caste. I recalled, from the tale of the stranger, that some evidence had suggested that Tyrtaios, who may have had much to do with the attempted desertion, and who had disappeared from the castle of Lord Temmu, might be of the Assassins.

The two guardsmen now withdrew.

“It is over now, is it not?” said Demetrion.

“Yes,” said Captain Nakamura. “But, if you wish, we will conclude all trading, return to the ship, and take to the sea, and then perhaps this ship, and none like it, will ever again come to the piers of great Brundisium.”

“No, no,” said Demetrion, hastily, and then, raising his voice, he called out, “It is over! It is done, all done. Return to business! To business! The house remains open late this night!”

This announcement was met with pleasure.

“I will have the body delivered to the pool, by garbage slaves,” said Demetrion.

Supposing this allusion might be obscure to the stranger and Captain Nakamura, I explained it to them. For any who might come upon this manuscript and are not familiar with Brundisium, the pool, when the grating is raised, is accessible from the sea, and may be entered by sharks, and grunt. It serves several purposes. It tends to draw predatory fish away from the piers, and it provides a convenient way of disposing of large forms of garbage, the bodies, say, of dead animals. It is also used as a place of execution, in particular, for minor offenses, such as theft. The grating is raised, which is a signal to fish in the vicinity that a feeding is at hand. If the victim is alive, a limb is severed, which distributes blood in the water, and then the limb and the victim are cast into the pool.

The head which had been removed from the body, with the apparent intention of bringing it eventually to the attention of Tyrtaios, was given into the keeping of the Pani, Tatsu, who accepted it, and, holding it by the hair, bowed, and then withdrew, with his three fellows, presumably to the ship.

“I will have warm water and dry cloths brought,” said Demetrion, “that you may wash and dry your swords.”

“My thanks,” said the stranger.

The captain bowed, slightly, acknowledging the courtesy.

One seldom sheaths an unclean sword, and, one supposes, one would be reluctant to return such a blade to a clean sash, as well. In the field, leaves, and grass, may be used. Some use the hair and clothing of the fallen. Others carry a soft cloth for such a purpose. When the blade is clean and dry, it is often given a thin coating of oil, which protects against rust, and, some believe, facilitates the flight from the scabbard.

The body of Cineas, headless, was removed by two garbage slaves, short brawny men, kept by the harbor office.

Shortly thereafter a lad, employed in the warehouse, brought the stranger and Captain Nakamura two small vessels of heated, colored, scented water, and two soft, brightly white, deeply napped, scarflike cloths.

Captain Nakamura, one gathers, a man of refinement, if not the stranger, appeared to recognize and appreciate the nature and quality of this homely amenity. Many of the high Pani, I am told, are sensitive to beauty, to matters of artistry and grace, even in small things, such as the serving of tea, the arrangement of flowers.

The two blades were soon cleaned and returned to their respective housings. The stranger, being right-handed, ran his sheath strap from his right shoulder to his left hip, so the blade was at his left hip. Before he met Cineas he had removed both the strap and sheath, for such things may be seized. When danger is imminent the strap is usually, for a right-handed swordsman, simply put loose over the left shoulder, where, in a moment, the blade drawn, the belt and sheath may be held, as the stranger did, or, as is often the case, discarded altogether, to be retrieved later, this being permitted by the outcome of the encounter.

“We have accomplished much, successfully, noble Callias,” said Captain Nakamura. “We have journeyed to the World’s End, Brundisium, we have founded a trade route, we are in the process of obtaining much needed goods for our shogun, Lord Temmu, we have foiled, or meddled in, the plot of the traitor, Tyrtaios, have perhaps saved your life, and, in any event have deprived him of his agent, Cineas, and we have conveyed to you greetings, those of Lord Nishida and Tarl Cabot, the tarnsman.”

“I wish you well,” said the stranger, Callias, to the captain, Nakamura, of the ship, the River Dragon.

I would have thought they might then have clasped hands, hand to hand, or, perhaps, exchanged with one another the mariner’s clasp, hand to wrist, wrist to hand, but, instead, the stranger bowed to Captain Nakamura, and he, in turn, returned the bow. This seemed to me rather cool, rather formal, but in it was clearly expressed, I sensed, much respect.

“What will you do now, noble Callias?” inquired Captain Nakamura. “What are your are your plans, when we sail?”

“I would sail with you, of course, to return,” said the stranger.

“That is not possible,” said the captain.

“I must!” said the stranger.

“You have enemies amongst those who would have deserted,” said the captain. “Your interference at the gate will be recalled. We could not guarantee your safety from such men, even at the castle.”

“It is a risk I accept, a risk I welcome,” said the stranger.

“I fear,” said the captain, “matters are far more serious.”

“I do not understand,” said the stranger. He was much agitated. I had not understood the gravity of his determination to return to such a far, strange, and dangerous place, the World’s End.

Would one not rather strive to avoid a resumption of that perilous journey, at all costs?

What sort of men would dare to journey to the World’s End?

“You would be killed,” said the Captain. “Lords Temmu and Okimoto would see to it, for your part in stealing the great ship.”

“They would have destroyed it!” said the stranger.

“Yes,” said the captain, “and you were instrumental in foiling that design. Do you think that would be forgotten?”

“I was not alone!” he said.

“Tarl Cabot is important to the tarn cavalry,” said the captain. “I fear his men would die for him. It would be very dangerous to dispose of him, and, worse, presumably unwise. He may be needed. And Lord Nishida is a daimyo, with villages, rice fields, peasants, and ashigaru. He is respected by a hundred minor daimyos, and important in significant diplomacies, maintaining precarious neutralities amongst those who might lean to Lord Yamada, and perhaps, eventually, he might prove significant in the enlistment of allies.”

“And Callias,” said the stranger, bitterly, “has no such weight, no such power.”

“Certainly not,” said the captain.

“One who steals a sul may be mutilated, crippled, or killed,” said Callias, “whereas one who steals cities may be gifted with the medallion of a Ubar.”

“Or the throne of a shogun,” said the captain.

“I must go, in any event,” said the stranger.

“I will give you no berth,” said the captain.

“Why?”

“I have given my word on the matter,” said the captain.

“How so?” asked the stranger. “To whom?”

“To Lord Nishida, and Tarl Cabot, the tarnsman,” said the captain.

“But you have conveyed their greetings!” he said. “Are they not well disposed toward me?”

“More so than you realize,” said the captain.

“I do not understand, I do not understand,” said the stranger.

“Why is it so important to you?” inquired the captain, politely.

The stranger seemed about to speak, but he did not speak. He turned away.

“I fear,” I said, “Captain, that the matter has to do with a slave.”

“No, no!” said the stranger.

“A slave?” said the captain.

“I fear so,” I said.

“Ah!” said the captain, suddenly. “I had forgotten.”

The stranger turned to face him.

“Forgive me,” said the captain. “It had slipped my mind, doubtless in the press of circumstances, arranging matters with the harbor master, renting space, organizing goods, supervising trading, and such.”

“What had you forgotten?” asked the stranger.

“Lord Nishida and Tarl Cabot, the tarnsman,” said the captain, “have included with their greetings to you, a gift, as well.”

“I need no gift,” said the stranger, ruefully, bitterly.

“Do you refuse it?” asked the captain.

“I thought they were my friends,” said the stranger.

“Is it to be returned?” asked the captain.

“Certainly not,” I said.

“No,” said the stranger, wearily. “I am not so boorish. If they are not my friends, yet I am theirs. I would not so insult them.”

“I would like to sail with the tide, in the morning,” said the captain, “if our business can be finished here tonight.”

“The warehouse will remain open, until late,” I said. “And surely another day or two will not matter.”

“A day may matter,” said the captain. “One does not know.”

“You wish to sail as soon as possible?” I asked.

“As soon as is compatible with our business here,” said the captain.

“You hope to sail tomorrow?” I said.

“With the tide,” he said.

“Time is short, then,” I said.

“We will have it so,” said the captain.

“Accept then the gift, and have done with it,” I said to the stranger, “for the captain is much engaged.”

“I do not want it,” said the stranger.

“But you will accept it,” I said.

“Yes,” said the stranger, looking toward the tables.

“Where is the gift?” I asked.

“It,” said Captain Nakamura, pointing, “is in a back room, there, behind that door. We did not put it on the floor as it is a gift, and not for immediate sale.”

“But perhaps for later sale?” I said.

“Of course,” said the captain.

“I would return to the World’s End,” said the stranger. “That they, Lord Nishida and Tarl Cabot, whom I have served, and well I trust, in whose regard I putatively stand, would deny me that, is unconscionable.”

“They do not want you to die,” I said.

“They deny me the world, which they could easily grant, and send me instead, the sop of a gift,” he said, angrily.

“I do not think they meant you harm, nor insult,” I said. “Accept it, and then, if you wish, rid yourself of it, in anger.”

“I do not want it!” he said.

“They sent you greetings,” I said, “from the World’s End.”

“I do not want it!” he said.

“You may dispose of it, sell it,” I said.

“I do not want it!” he said.

“Very well,” I said. “Look upon it, and then leave it.”

“Follow me,” said Nakamura, captain of the River Dragon, who then began to move amongst the tables, toward the back of the room. In a moment, he had reached the door he had earlier indicated, opened it, and stood beside it, not entering.

“Captain, noble captain,” called Demetrion, harbor master in Brundisium, from several yards away, lifting his hand. “Your mark is required.”

“Will you excuse me?” said Captain Nakamura to the stranger and me, and, after bowing, went to join Demetrion.

Many Goreans, particularly of the lower castes, and some of the Warriors, a high caste, cannot read. Literacy is accepted in the lower castes, but not encouraged. There are Peasants who have never seen a written word. Some Warriors take pride in their inability to read, regarding that skill as unworthy of them, as being more appropriate to record keepers, tradesmen, clerks, and such, and some who can read take pains to conceal the fact. Swords, not words, rule cities, it is said. And some Goreans feel that reading is appropriate only for the less successful, those too poor to have their reading done for them, their letters written for them, and such. Slaves, unless formerly of high caste, are often illiterate. And barbarian slaves are seldom taught to read. This produces the anomaly that many barbarian slaves, who are generally of high intelligence, will be literate in one or more of the barbarian languages, but illiterate in Gorean. Indeed, they are often kept so, deliberately, that they may be all the more helpless, as slaves, and know themselves all the better as mere slaves. Needless to say, all members of my caste, even from childhood, are taught to read. How can one be fully human without the dignity, glory, and power of the written word? Is it not to the world what memory is to the individual? By its means words spoken long ago and faraway may once more be heard. By the magic of such marks, the sorcery of small signs, we converse with those we have never met, touch dreams we could not otherwise share, at a glance rekindle flames which first burned in distant hearts. How else might one hear the tones of distant trumpets, the tramp of vanished armies, ford rivers where now lies cracked earth, witness distant sunsets, and stand wondering on the shores of vanished seas? Pani warriors, those of the high Pani, so to speak, I learn from the stranger, are almost all literate. It is not regarded as demeaning for them. Indeed, some take great pleasure in reading, as others might in music, or conversation. Indeed, it is not unusual for a Pani warrior to compose songs, and poetry.

Demetrion had spoken of Captain Nakamura’s “mark,” as though he might have been illiterate. This misunderstanding was based on the fact that the Pani transcribe their Gorean in their own way, with their own characters, as do many in the Tahari region. There is a single Gorean language, but it may be transcribed in different ways. A consequence of this is that two individuals might converse easily, while, at the same time, finding one another’s written discourse unintelligible.

As the captain had indicated the door, and opened it, I took it that one was free to enter the room. Curious, I did so.

The room was perhaps some twenty-feet square, with a smooth flooring of dark, polished wood. The walls were white. Two narrow, barred windows, set some eight feet from the floor, admitted light, rather as the windows in the general trading area.

There was only one object in the room.

I turned about, toward the door, for I had expected the stranger to be behind me, but I did not see him.

I went to the door, and looked out, into the general area. He was a few feet away, his back turned.

When I had entered the room, the object had stirred, as it could, aware that the door had been opened, and that someone had entered the room.

“Ho!” I called to the stranger, from the door.

He did not turn, though he had doubtless heard me.

I turned back, to the room.

I had seldom seen a woman tied more pathetically, or helplessly. The Pani, I gathered, well knew how to bind a female. I wondered if, in some sense, she could be important. There was not the least possibility of her escaping. She would remain as she was, wholly helpless, at the mercy of any who might find her. I moved the long Pani tunic up, on her left side, to the hip. I saw then that I was mistaken; she was not important. She was well marked, with the kef. She was then only a slave. I replaced the tunic so that, as before, the hem was across her ankles. I myself liked a shorter tunic on a slave, as the legs and thighs of a chattel are exciting. Also, the shorter tunic helps her to better understand that she is a slave.

I regarded Callias’ gift.

The Pani had tied her kneeling, and bent tightly over. Her head was down, to the floor, and was held in place, in slave humility, by a short, taut cord which ran from her collar back, under her body, to her small, crossed, thonged ankles. In this way any pressure is at the back of the neck, away from the throat. Her small wrists were also crossed, and thonged together behind her back. She was, thus, cruelly and tightly bent over, a small, compact, nicely curved, well-tethered, attractive bundle of slave meat. She had also been blindfolded and gagged.

I again regarded her.

She was totally helpless, and unable to either see or speak.

I went again to the door, and again addressed the stranger. “Ho!” I called. “Come and see your gift!”

He then turned, though I fear reluctantly. Indeed, I had feared he might have left the warehouse.

“What is it?” he called.

“I fear it is negligible,” I said. It was, after all, only a slave.

“Good,” he said.

He had been denied passage on the River Dragon, which had been of desperate importance to him. What then might compensate him for a loss so grievous? A valuable gift would have been, under the circumstances, cruel, or insulting. A negligible gift thus, at least, demonstrated that Lord Nishida and Tarl Cabot understood and respected his feelings, acknowledging, in this way, the accepted disparity involved, that the values involved were incommensurable.

He approached the door, and I stood aside.

He stopped within the threshold. He stood still, there, as though shocked, as in disbelief. He put a hand to the door jamb, on his right, suddenly striking it, to steady himself. He wavered. I feared, for a moment, his knees would buckle. Was this the man, I asked myself, who had faced mutineers, who had stood before a gate at the World’s End? He trembled. He tried to speak. No words emerged. He shook his head, twice, as though to assure himself that what he saw was real.

“Are you well?” I asked. “What is wrong?”

He did not respond to me.

“You need not accept it,” I said, “but I think it would be churlish not to do so. When the ship is gone, which will apparently be soon, sell it. It is your right.”

“Can it be?” he said. “Can it be!” he cried.

“No one would blame you,” I said. “Not Lord Nishida nor Tarl Cabot.”

“Aii!” he cried out, suddenly, and flung himself on his knees, beside the object, his dagger free.

“Do not kill it!” I cried, alarmed.

I seized his arm, holding it.

“Do not be enraged!” I said. “Do not take your disappointment out on the slave. She is innocent! She is only a slave. See, she is bound! She is blindfolded! She is gagged! She can help nothing!”

I struggled to hold his arm.

I could not determine if he were laughing, or crying.

“Innocent?” he cried. “A slave, innocent! See her beauty! You say she can help nothing! Every movement, every wisp of her hair, is guilty! Her ankles, her wrists, her bosom, her eyes, her lips, her feet, her hands, each quarter hort of her, each bit of her, each particle of her is guilty! Innocent? A slave, innocent! Does her beauty not wrench the heart of a man! Might not her smile slay with the swiftness of a quarrel? Is her touch not more dangerous than that of the ost? Does she not make a man helpless! Might she not conquer with a whisper, a caress? A kiss might breach the walls of a city, overturn the thrones of Ubars! What net, what web, can compare with her laughter?”

“Do not be concerned,” I said. “They are animals, she-sleen! Keep them in collars. Hold the whip over them. They understand the collar, the lash! It is a question of who will be master. They crave strength, not weakness! Freed they are the bitterest and most frustrated, the subtlest and slyest of enemies. In their collars, they are content, appetitious, desirable, grateful, and fulfilled. They find the wholeness of their joy only when they are choiceless, and mastered. Men seek their slaves, and women their masters.”

He pulled his arm away from me, and the dagger swiftly parted the cord that held her head down, fastened to her feet.

Her eyes must have been wild, open, but unable to see anything, blocked in the darkness of the blindfold. She made tiny, helpless, piteous, desperate noises, scarcely detectable outside the sturdiness of the gag, its tight, encircling leather perimeters.

The Pani had done their work well.

The slave could neither see nor speak.

“Kneel her up,” I said. “What does her collar say?”

As the collar was light, it seemed to me likely that it was a private collar, not a public collar, not, say, a ship’s collar.

“Read it,” he said.

“I cannot read Pani script,” I said. I had seen samples of it amongst the trading tables.

“You can read it,” he said.

“Ah!” I said.

I could indeed read it.

“It is in familiar Gorean,” I said.

“Tarl Cabot,” he said.

“But the gift, surely,” I said, “is from Lord Nishida.”

“Yes,” said the stranger. “He is a daimyo.”

The collar read as follows: “I am Alcinoe. I belong to Callias, of Jad.”

“It was for this,” I asked, “that you would have ventured to the World’s End, for this, a mere slave?”

“Yes,” he said, “for this, a mere slave.”