Mariners of Gor

Chapter Nine

I awakened to the screaming of tarns and the beating of the ship’s great alarm bar, over and over, incessantly, deafeningly.

“Deck, deck, deck!” I heard.

Outside our crew area, one of several, I could hear feet running in the corridor, others climbing the stairs in the nearest companionway.

“Beware,” called Philoctetes. “There is swordplay.”

We could hear the ringing of steel.

It was past the twentieth Ahn.

“Lamps have been shattered!” I heard. “Put out the fires.”

We tumbled from our quarters, casting our furs about us. Most of us had been disarmed, a concomitance of the weeks of short days and cold, the length of our seizure by the ice, the reduction in rations, the deterioration of morale, the growing fear, the gradually increasing sense of desperation and hopelessness, the surliness of many, but there are always hidden weapons.

“We are under attack!” I heard.

“No, no!” I heard.

“What is going on?” called a fellow.

“Lamps have been shattered!” I heard.

In our quarters we looked wildly to one another. Muchly did we fear fire.

“No!” I heard. “No! To the weapon room!”

The Pani were still armed, and officers, and various guardsmen.

Philoctetes opened the door to the corridor, cautiously, and peered out. It was apparently then empty. We followed him into the corridor. Some tharlarion oil from a lamp, like spread grease, was burning on the flooring. The lamp itself was still on its chains. It was not difficult to smother the flames, with furs, or stamp them out. The most serious fires on a ship are likely to originate in the kitchens. It did not seem likely anyone was trying to fire the ship. Most likely the lamp, in the low-ceilinged passageway, had been jostled in the passage of armed, rushing men. We encountered no shattered lamps, nor any indications of arson.

We could hear, above us, however, the sound of steel, the cries of men.

There must be fighting in corridors, or elsewhere.

We also heard the grating of the large tarn hatch, amidships, being rolled back. This is done with a double windlass. It takes several men to move the hatch.

When the ship had debouched from the Alexandra, and entered Thassa, I had been told there were something like two hundred tarns aboard. They were housed in three large areas, each occupying a substantial portion of its own deck. The highest area was on the first deck below the open deck. The other two areas, by ramps, led to the highest area, it alone having the sky accessible, once the great hatch was rolled back. As the tarn is a large, dangerous, aggressive bird, and territorial in the wild, many of the ship tarns had separate stalls, or cages; others were chained apart, by the left foot; some others, crowded together, literally had their wings bound, their beaks strapped shut, save for feeding.

Restless, and many long unflighted, it was unusually dangerous to be amongst them. Few but tarnsmen or tarnkeepers would approach them, and then with great caution.

“Let us to the weapon room,” said a fellow.

There, one supposed, arms might be issued to us, were they deemed in order. As it turned out, however, the weapon room had been stormed earlier by a number of disaffected crew members, in effect, mutineers, who were intent on freeing tarns, and risking a flight which might lead to land, a flight presumably to the east, where lay Torvaldsland.

I knew little of tarns, the control of such monsters, their dispositions and habits, their ranges of flight, and such, but it seemed improbable, given our conjectured position, so far west of even the farther islands, that one might reach land, say, Torvaldsland, before the tarn might, even with the might of its legendary stamina, fall to the ice, in the dimness or darkness, unable to continue on, to die of cold and exhaustion, or, starving, turn on its rider. If landfall were practical from our current position surely our outriders and scouts would have discovered this, returned, reported it, brought back much needed supplies, and such. But it was true some deserters had, in the past weeks, now and then, flighted a tarn away, over the ice, into the gray sky, and had not returned. Who knew that some of them might not have reached land. Twice, riderless tarns had returned to the ship, their harnessing torn apart or missing, their beaks red with frozen blood. They flew at those who would have led them below. They were killed.

In our small quarters there were some forty fellows, mostly of Cos, Tyros, or the smaller islands. We did not mix well with the fellows from the continent.

I would conjecture there were some five hundred of the unusual men, the Pani, on board, divided amongst the commands of Lords Nishida and Okimoto, some two hundred and fifty each. And of others, mariners, soldiers, artisans, and such, perhaps two thousand, these recruited variously, many, particularly the mercenaries, in Brundisium, often fugitives from the restoration in Ar. I was not clear on the purpose of the voyage, but it doubtless had to do with war, for our ship, despite what might be the views of its shipwright, Tersites, was serving essentially as a transport, one undertaking an unprecedented voyage, whose intended destination seemed likely to be known only to the Pani. The male Pani, for example, were uniformly warriors. This I found significant. There were a handful of Pani females aboard, but I saw little of them. They were spoken of as contract women. I did not understand their status. It did not seem they were slaves. The other men aboard, other than the Pani, or at least the overwhelming majority of us, as were the Pani, were men accustomed to weaponry and the arbitrations of force. The ship, then, as noted, was essentially a transport, conveying a small army to foreign fields. The slaves on board, perhaps some two hundred in number, would have their various purposes, serving in various ways. Too, of course, such women are a form of wealth, as they may be sold, traded, bartered, given as gifts, and such. I did not doubt but what such goods would figure in the plans of the Pani. Of tarns, I had been told, as mentioned, that there had been something in the neighborhood of two hundred on board when the ship of Tersites had entered Thassa from the Alexandra. A tarn cavalry was clearly intended, which was, I suspected, intended to be a decisive arm in some projected campaign. I gathered that tarns might be unknown at the World’s End; else why would they be aboard? The Pani seemed to have no shortage of resources, given their financing of the ship of Tersites, the hiring of hundreds of mercenaries, the purchasing of slaves, and such. Thus, if tarns were common at the World’s End it would be more expeditious to obtain them there. If they were not known at the World’s End, then their judicious application in battle, reconnaissance, raids, and such, might indeed prove formidable. Even their appearance might inspire awe, even terror. To be sure, there were no longer some two hundred tarns on board. Some had been flighted, and had not returned; some had died; two had been killed. There was secrecy with respect to the figures involved, as would be expected, as with the number of catapults, and such, but rumors suggested a current count of something like one hundred and seventy healthy tarns on board. We knew of three weapon rooms, but suspected there were others. One aspect, at least, of the naval power of the ship of Tersites was clear. She nested six galleys. The tarnsman, Tarl Cabot, was apparently the commander of the tarn cavalry. Several times, in better weather, he had had it aloft, in training exercises. It is impressive to see such mighty beasts in flight, the stroke of the wings to the beating of the tarn drum, the wheelings and maneuvers, in unison, to the signals of banners and trumpets.

“Follow me,” said Philoctetes, who was first in our small company. We followed him up the companionway to the next deck, and then to the next. Unarmed, I was uneasy. We could hear the ringing of steel here and there. Who greets a larl without a spear in one’s grasp? Of the three weapon rooms we knew about, two were forward, and one amidships. Ours was amidships. It was on the deck now above us. The tarn areas were also amidships, consuming most of three decks. As noted, the highest area was on the first deck below the open deck, the lower two areas having access to it by ramps. As noted, only the highest area would open to the sky, once the great hatch was rolled back. We were now, on the companionway, moving past the highest of the two lower tarn areas. Most of the cries, the noise, the screaming of tarns, came from above, the first tarn area, that which might be opened to the sky.

I heard the snap of a bowstring above, and a fellow, on the flooring above, dark, briefly outlined in the light of a tharlarion-oil lamp, turned about, slowly, and then tumbled part way down the companionway, toward us, some five stairs. Philoctetes pulled him aside, and looked up. He then thrust the body down, past us. The arrow had been broken in the fellow’s fall, against the stairs.

“It is a Pani arrow,” said a fellow.

The Pani arrow is long, rather like that of the peasant bow, but the Pani bow is unlike the peasant bow, as it is longer, and lighter. Both bows are different from the short, stout Tuchuk bow, or saddle bow, which, I had learned, had been introduced by the tarnsman, Tarl Cabot, into the weaponry of the tarn cavalry. In the corridor above, the Pani bow must have been used diagonally, given the low ceiling of the corridor. The ideal weapon in closed spaces would be the crossbow, not only because of its size and maneuverability, but, even more, because the bolt or quarrel may wait patiently in the guide, the cable back, ready to spring forth instantly, at the press of a finger on the trigger. It takes a moment, of course, to draw a bow, and it requires strength to keep the bow drawn. The Pani bow, the peasant bow, and the saddle bow, of course, and such bows, have a rapidity of fire which far exceeds that of even the stirruped crossbow.

At the foot of the companionway two men, in the dim light, turned the body.

“I do not know him,” said a fellow.

“He has a blade,” said a man, gratefully.

One of our men, finger by finger, pried loose the blade from the clenched hand.

“Now we have one sword,” said a man.

“Leave it,” said Philoctetes. “Armed, you may be mistaken for a mutineer.”

“You would have us defenseless?” asked a man.

“Wait,” said Philoctetes, “until all are armed.”

“Not I,” said a man, Aristodemus of Tyros.

“Give it to him,” said a fellow. The blade was surrendered to him. We took him to be first sword amongst us.

“Conceal it,” advised Philoctetes.

Aristodemus placed the blade within his furs.

Standing on the stairs, Philoctetes called out, “Friend! Friend!”

“Beware!” I called to him.

He then, cautiously, ascended two or three more steps. “Friend!” he called, again, not showing himself. “Friend!”

He then, from the stairs, peered into the corridor. Then he turned back to us. “I see no one,” he said.

“There are doors,” I said, “corners, where the passageways intersect.”

The arrow had been sped from somewhere.

“Stay back,” said Philoctetes, and he ascended to the corridor, his hands held over his head.

I would have given much for even a buckler.

Philoctetes lowered his hands, and turned to his left.

The archer, it seemed, had gone.

In a moment we had followed him, and crowded behind him. We saw that the weapon room had been broken into. Most of the weaponry, spears, swords, crossbows, longbows, javelins, glaves, maces, axes, Anango darts, gauntlet hatchets, edged battle weights, bladed chains, and such, was gone. Some of the bows and spears, ax hafts, and such, had been broken, or splintered. I suspected that much of what had not been seized, might have been carried to the open deck, and cast overboard, that it not be available to others. At that time we did not know the numbers of the mutineers. Their attacks, however, seemed to have been organized, and coordinated. I wondered if Tyrtaios or Seremides was involved. It seemed unlikely, for both men were astute. There would be little point in seizing the ship, given her present straits, and, if their hope was an escape, however improbable of success such an effort might be, they would presumably be content to seize one or two tarns and flee, following in the wake of earlier deserters. Three men were dead in the corridor; one was of the Pani, probably the room guard, posted outside the door, and two others, who may have fallen to his swift, small sword, each, apparently, by a single stroke. He of the Pani, in any event, whether offered terms or not, had obviously refused to surrender the weapons in his charge, preferring rather to die in their defense. I would later learn that this standing at one’s post, this adherence to duty, was typical of the Pani.

“We are unarmed,” said a fellow. “There is nothing we can do, one way or the other. Let us return to our quarters and abide the outcome.”

“We might side with the winning party,” said a fellow.

“There is no winning party,” said another. “This is not about the ship. This is about flight.”

“There is no escape from the ice, unless it be by tarn,” said a man.

“Perhaps we can secure a tarn!” cried a fellow. “There is fighting, confusion!”

“To the high cot!” cried a man.

“The first tarn hold!” cried another.

“Yes!” cried another.

“Hold!” said Philoctetes. “It is madness!”

“We are unarmed, we pose no threat, none will fire upon us, none will cut us down,” said a man.

“If you interfere, you will be deemed a threat,” said Philoctetes. “You would deal with desperate men, of either side, who will strike without hesitation or compunction.”

“To the cots! To the tarn holds!” insisted a man.

“To the high cot!” said another. “The first tarn hold! Only it opens to the sky!”

“That is where the fighting will be!” said a man.

“Traps will be sealed on the others!” said a man.

“Do not let others seize our only chance to live!” cried a man.

“Are we cowards?” shouted a fellow.

“To the tarn hold!” screamed a man.

“The first, the first!” screamed a man.

“I have a sword,” said Aristodemus, he of Tyros.

“Follow Aristodemus!” said a fellow.

“Follow me!” cried Aristodemus, brandishing the sword, now removed from the concealment of his furs.

“To the high cots!” cried a man.

“To the first tarn hold!” shouted a second.

“Wait!” begged Philoctetes, but he was pushed aside, fell, and men rushed past him.

I crouched beside Philoctetes. He held his arm, which was, as it turned out, broken. We were then alone in the corridor. He looked after the departing men. “Fools,” he hissed, “fools!”

There were footsteps in the corridor and some seven or eight Pani, with their odd, long-handled, curved blades removed from their sashes, hurried past us.

“Go with them,” said Philoctetes. “The tarns, the ship, must be saved.”

“You came to the weapon room,” I said. “It was your intention to stand with the ship.”

“Yes,” he said, “for Cos, for honor!”

I looked to the body of the slain Pani some feet from us, sprawled across the doorway. It had been half hacked to pieces, probably in the frustration and rage of those desperate men in whose way he had so resolutely stood.

“For Cos then,” I said, “for honor!”

I then sprang from the side of Philoctetes and hurried after the Pani.

The keeping areas for tarns on the ship of Tersites are large, though small enough, considering the monsters they must house. Some spoke of them as tarn holds, though they were not holds as one would usually think of such places. Some spoke of them, as well, as the “cots,” though they bore little resemblance to the common tarn cots, if only because of their vast dimensions, even to those which might be maintained by professional tarnsters in the high cities, specializing in freight and haulage. The great ship itself, made possible by Tur wood and bracing, would be something like a hundred and ten yards from stem to stern, and, abeam, some forty yards. It had nine decks. The tarn areas occupied almost the whole of three decks, as noted, each being some seventy yards in length and some thirty yards in width. Unlike many of the tarn cots in the cities, which are lofty and allow room for perches at various heights, the ceilings of these areas were not more than five yards in height. This, despite the width and length of each, gave each an enclosing, cramped aspect. There were three rows of wooden-barred cages, or stalls, in each area, each extending for much of the length of the cot area, these three rows being separated by two aisles. An open space was provided fore and aft in each cot area, in which some birds were chained in place, and others, in effect, bound, wings pinioned by ropes, beaks strapped shut, save for feeding. In these areas, also, might be stored tackle, saddles, straps, reins, and such. The birds were usually saddled and mounted in a narrow, shuttered area, and then led to one ramp or another, the first two ramps each leading to a higher deck, the last to the open deck itself, whence the bird might take flight. Whereas the tarn, in virtue of its strength, can take flight directly, interestingly, almost vertically, from a horizontal surface, they would usually, on the ship, as from a cliff, launch themselves through an arranged opening in the bulwarks, spread their wings, catch the air, and then strike their way upward.

The Pani moved swiftly through the corridor, single file, in a smooth, shuffling gait, almost in cadence. The narrowness of the corridors, which one or two men might plausibly defend, and the lowness of the ceiling, and the dangling lamps, discouraged a more frenetic, disorderly passage. I recalled the spilled oil, flaming, outside our own quarters, which we had quickly extinguished.

By the side passages, and companionways, and our progress, I took it we had ascended higher than the two lower levels of the housing area for tarns, and were near the upper deck, or open deck. The two lower areas had large traps, which must be raised, the first to provide its ramp’s access to the second level, and that of the second level to provide its ramp’s access to the highest level, the ramp of which led, once the great hatch, some yards square, was rolled back, to the open deck. It was there the serious fighting, after that in the corridors and companionways, would take place. There would be the tarns most sought, those which might be most swiftly brought to flight.

There were, naturally, several entryways, for men, supplies, feed, and such, both on the port and starboard side of the ship, at the various levels, to the tarn areas. The Pani had, however, judiciously ignored the entryways to the lower levels. They followed the sounds of war, and sought their source.

There were bodies in the corridor, some living.

We threaded our way amongst them.

The sound of steel on steel was now bright and sharp. I was very conscious I had no weapon. I heard the wild, shrill scream of a tarn. I heard the splintering wood, the cries of men, the snap of a bowstring.

We had come to an opened door. Near it, cut down, were two Pani. Through this door, I took it, and perhaps others, the mutineers had entered the high tarn deck. The great hatch is so arranged that it may be moved by means of either, or both, of two windlasses, one inside the tarn area, the other accessible from the main deck. I suddenly shuddered, realizing the plan of the men I followed. In the light of the nearby lamp, hung from the low ceiling of the corridor, I noted that more than one of the Pani was either wounded, or his garments had been slashed. Thus, these men had been in the fight earlier. They had now come about the ship, and were intending to take the mutineers from behind. Surprise would be with them for only a moment, but I had little doubt that it would be a moment of which the most would be made. I was still not clear on the number of mutineers. I did know, now, there were eight Pani at the door, and one unarmed Cosian. Perhaps, I thought, they, in so small a number, will merely attempt to hold the door, to prevent mutineers, should things turn against them, from withdrawing through it, perhaps to discard weapons somewhere, and thence to lose themselves amongst hundreds of others, innocent others not involved in their cause. I was wrong. The Pani, silently, swiftly, their long-hilted, tasseled swords grasped in two hands, fell upon armed men from behind. I think they slew twice their number before men became aware of their presence, and turned to face them. Then the battle near the door began. I stood in the doorway, half crouched down. In the melee, farther on, the mixing was such that I could not tell, except for the occasional Pani, who might be mutinous and who not. Certainly men fought men, and who knew who might be of which party. I saw disruption, confusion, blood, carnage, and death, both of men and beasts. The hatch had been rolled back. The main deck, or most of it, I took it, was in the hands of mutineers, as many ran down the ramp, to try to free a tarn, sometimes to fight with others for the bird. Some tarns, their doors opened to fetch them forth, tried to fly, and dashed themselves against the ceiling, or the stalls, or cages, opposite their own. In the narrowness of the aisles some had broken a wing and, with beak and long, curved, vicious talons, as thick as a man’s wrist, in their confusion, rage, and pain, attacked anything within reach, the thick wooden bars of cages, one another, the bodies of men. I saw a head torn off, and, more than once, a body held down, grasped in talons, being torn apart, being eaten. Several tarns, sensing the sky, the hatch now open to the far, bright stars, with a great snap of their wings, sometimes dragging saddle and harnessing behind them, disappeared into the cold night. Others, trying to escape, were killed. I saw one man clinging to a saddle girth carried out, and away, and thence, losing his grip, fall screaming to the ice below. Some fighting was taking place on the open deck. Some were forced over the bulwarks. Below, clearly enough, in the interstices of combat, men backed away from one another to look wildly about, struggling to regain their breath. In the stillness and frigidity of the air, I could hear the churning of water and the snorting of sea sleen below. Some men, mutineers doubtless, despairing of success, began to move from stall to stall, cutting the throats of tarns. If they could not escape, it seemed that they would have it that none might do so. I saw Tarl Cabot, and his confrere, Pertinax, and the fellow, Tajima, a fine rider, fighting, to protect tarns. Men drew away from Cabot. Few, it seemed, cared to cross steel with him. One thrust at him with a spear, doubtless stolen from a weapon room, but he caught the weapon and jerked its wielder forward, startled, wide-eyed, onto the sharp blade of the small swift sword, the warrior’s gladius. Almost in the same moment he freed the blade, and parried a thrust, the last his now-backward-reeling foe would make. I think some mutineers did mount tarns, and manage to leave the ship. The count was not clear. I saw one of the Pani directing his bow toward me. “No!” cried Cabot, touching the fellow’s arm. “Callias!” he called to me, remembering my name. “To us, to us!” he called, his reddish hair wild under his talmit. Those helmeted were largely mutineers, who had prepared for this hour. I edged about cages, trying to reach the tarnsman. In doing so, I became aware, as I never had been, of the size, the power, and awesomeness of the tarn, for I came within feet of one, whose head, far above mine, with its bright, glistening, dark eyes, was moving, alertly, from one side to the other, as though more puzzled, or curious, than anything else. How tiny a man is on the back of such a beast! What sort of men, I wondered, might once have caught, tamed, and trained such monsters! Indeed, what men, even today, I wondered, would have the courage to come within yards of such a monster, let alone command it from a saddle!

Cabot bent down and retrieved a blade. He cast it toward me, and, a foot or two from me, almost within my reach, it sank into one of the broad, rounded wooden, postlike bars, some five horts thick, of a tarn cage. I drew it free, with a sudden sense of exhilaration. Such a blade, though short, could reach the heart of even a larl. It bore the ship’s mark, the Tau, for the ship of Tersites. I had little doubt it had been removed, stolen, from a weapon room, perhaps from the very one we had found ransacked, and nearly emptied, save for destroyed arms.

I brandished it, sensing the heft, the weight, the balance. Yes, I thought, yes! It was the sort of blade to which one might grow accustomed, the sort of blade to which one might entrust one’s life, placing its sharp, narrow wall of agile metal between oneself and death.

Cabot grinned. “See that you use it honestly!” he called.

He had armed me.

For such an officer one would die.

I worked my way to his side.

I fenced away an antagonist, and then another. I did not see the foeman moving to my right, but I did see him fall. I owed my life to Tarl Cabot. Even in the test of combat one should be as acutely aware as one is keenly alive. Surely the foe most dangerous is he who is likely to be the least noticed.

Near the ramp, on its left, I saw Seremides fell a man. I was familiar with his skill from Ar. Few could match him. Seremides then was loyal, or not ready, now, to show himself disloyal. I saw him disable another man, and then twice slash his face, once on each side, and then his blade, swift as a striking ost, entered the throat and withdrew, only a hort, but enough. I had seen him do such things in Ar. He was fond of such death play. He was vain, and enjoyed such flourishes. Eleven times I, and others, had been invited, in the dawn, in the square before the Central Cylinder, or in one park or another, to witness his games. Often his victim, provoked to accept a challenge, would have been guilty of little more than entering a portal before him, or brushing against him in a theater or market. Seremides had his likes and dislikes, however they might be founded, and it was better not to be disliked. He could bide his time, with the patience of a concealed sleen, in ambush, waiting for his opportunity, even an opinion to be expressed, whatever it might be, and would then contradict it, and then heat the matter with aspersions and derogations to the point of martial arbitration. The opinion was immaterial; paramount would be the quarrel, the pretext, that being the quarry sought, the quarrel, always the quarrel. Wise men attended his words, intently, and graciously, spoke little in his presence, and would forbear to disagree. One tried to please him. He enjoyed killing. He was of the retinue of Lord Okimoto.

I was pleased to see him in the high tarn hold, though I would have been better pleased to see him amongst the mutineers. I had feared he might by now have departed the ship, in tarnflight, the slave, Alcinoe, bound belly up across his saddle, in some desperate attempt to reach Ar. But such an effort would be irrational, and would presumably conclude not with a sack of gold, but with the death of both on the ice. Too, he would have had to break into the Kasra area, no simple task, and even were he successful in accomplishing this, she, as the other slaves, would still be on her chain. No, this was not the time to think of bringing a slave to Ar. Not the time for either of us. And why should it be he, and not I, who would place the fugitive before Marlenus? The bounty on the high-born, beautiful, officious slut, now collared, was high. Why should the gold be his and not mine? She was a traitress, a conspirator, a criminal, a profiteer, a betrayer of her Home Stone, once even the confidante of the arch traitress herself, Talena, of Ar. Surely she should be returned to the justice of Ar. I wondered if she might make a good slave. She was attractive. It might be pleasant to have her at one’s feet, her lips pressed fervently, hopefully, to them. If she were not pleasing, or if one tired of her, one could always return her to Ar. She was highly intelligent. Such things would be easy for her to understand. It might be pleasant to have her under one’s whip, if only for a time. Why could I not forget her? Had I not, even from Ar, dreamed of her small wrists fastened behind her, in my bracelets? The bounty might win me a dozen slaves, even more beautiful than she, perhaps even a galley, but would these, together, the gold washed with blood, be of greater value to me than a single slave whom one might master with severity, but for whom one would die?

“Beware!” cried Cabot, angrily. I fended the blow. I thrust. The fellow stumbled back, bleeding.

Beside Seremides, near the ramp, was Tyrtaios, who was of the retinue of Lord Nishida.

The tarn in the cage behind me screamed, and for a moment I could not hear.

I saw more Pani entering the area, from side doors. Lower portions of the ship, I supposed, had been secured. Many men, I conjectured, had been sealed in their quarters, or warned to remain within.

It seemed clear to me that the tide of war on this strange field, a lower deck on a great ship, was not favoring the mutineers. I conjectured their numbers might have been as few as two to three hundred. Certainly they had not hoped to stand against united Pani, loyal to their lords, and better than a thousand men who might have been armed and brought into the fray from below. No, they would have hoped to strike swiftly, seize the mounts, and then, before resistance could be mustered, make good their escape. But the ship was locked in Thassa’s ice. Escape even under ideal conditions, given our presumed location, would have been unlikely. And, in any event, there were fewer tarns than mutineers, even from the beginning, and certainly after the killings, the slaughter, the injuring of birds, and the escape of several. Mutineers, I later learned, had been killing one another to attain the saddle of a tarn, many presumably having hoped to buy that place with steel, when, unfortunately for them, the ship’s loyalist forces, Pani and others, rallied and came to the first tarn hold.

“In, in, in!” cried a tarnkeeper, swinging open one of the large, wood-barred gates of a cage. Another, before one of the monsters, was shouting and raising his arms. Tarns, like larls and sleen, tend to find noise and violent motions disconcerting. Larls have been known to withdraw before a shouting child beating on a pan with a metal spoon. One of the monsters backed into the cage, beak snapping with menace, and the tarnkeeper at the gate swung it shut, hooking the latch in place. I saw another tarn down the aisle being similarly housed.

A fellow ran past. I did not know if he were a mutineer or not.

I did not strike at him.

“Throw down your arms!” cried Cabot to mutineers. “Throw down your arms!”

Some did, and were hastily bound by Pani, neck to neck, hands behind their backs.

A number of mutineers, however, desperately, fighting, were backing up the ramp toward the open deck. That deck, at least amidships and forward, I gathered, had been largely, most of the time, in the hands of the mutineers. The hatch windlass on the open deck, it seems, had been that used in rolling back the hatch. Many mutineers had come down the ramp from the open deck.

Some of the mutineers on the ramp, those a little behind the points of engagement, turned about, and fled up the ramp. Many of these were felled on the ramp by Pani bows, now with clear targets. Several arrows were lodged in the ramp itself.

Behind me I heard a man weeping, a tarnkeeper. He held the gigantic, limp head of one of the monsters to his breast.

We heard a grating noise. Several mutineers were on the open deck. They were trying to close the hatch.

“Ropes!” I heard, from above. “Food!”

“Do not close the hatch!” screamed mutineers still on the ramp.

It rumbled shut.

“Sleen, sleen!” cried abandoned mutineers.

Our men drew back. The Pani archers, in lines, set arrows to the strings of their bows.

“Throw down your weapons!” cried Cabot to the men on the ramp.

They cast them away, clattering, rolling and sliding, down the ramp.

“No!” cried Cabot.

The lines of Pani archers loosed their arrows.

I think there were none on the ramp, who were not transfixed with two or three arrows.

“Stop!” cried Cabot, to Pani ascending the ramp, cutting throats. “Stop!”

Seremides, at the foot of the ramp, lifted his sword in salute to Lord Okimoto.

He had come now to the first tarn hold.

His hands were folded within the wide sleeves of his garment. “Those who are disloyal must die,” he said.

Cabot ran to the ramp, climbed it two thirds of the way, and interposed himself between stricken mutineers and two of the Pani, who bore red knives. They stepped back, and two others rushed forward, their curved blades lifted, grasped in two hands. The eyes of Seremides, at the side of the ramp, blazed with delight. But the man Tajima who had followed Cabot on the ramp had placed himself between Cabot, who, crouched down, was on guard, and the two Pani. “Stop!” he cried. “Stop, in the name of Lord Nishida!” The two Pani stepped away, each to a side, their blades respectfully lowered. This cleared an opening to the bottom of the ramp, where stood the placid Lord Okimoto.

“Is the honorable Tajima, swordsman,” asked Lord Okimoto, politely, “authorized to speak for Lord Nishida?”

“I speak as he would speak,” said Tajima.

“Does the honorable Tajima, swordsman,” asked Lord Okimoto, “hold a blade, unhoused, in my presence?”

“No, my lord!” said Tajima. He bowed, and swiftly replaced the blade in his sash.

At that point the large hatch above began to move once more, slowly, rumbling, this time opening, revealing the sky.

We heard no sounds of fighting on the deck. I took it the deck was cleared.

Cabot remained on guard.

Several Pani, behind Lord Okimoto, put arrows to the strings of their bows.

“Is the honorable Tajima, swordsman,” asked Lord Okimoto, once more, politely, “authorized to speak for Lord Nishida?”

“I am authorized to speak for Lord Nishida,” said a voice from the deck, at the top of the ramp.

I looked up. The figure was in battle gear, and it removed from its head a large, winged helmet.

“Ah,” said Lord Okimoto, politely, “Lord Nishida.”

“What is going on?” inquired Lord Nishida.

“I am first, am I not?” inquired Lord Okimoto.

“Of course,” said Lord Nishida, bowing his head briefly, acknowledging the priority of his colleague. It was my understanding that each lord had something like two hundred and fifty Pani in his command, that those of Lord Nishida had been housed at a place called Tarn Camp, north of the Alexandra, some pasangs from its headwaters, and that those of Lord Okimoto had been housed differently, but in the vicinity, somewhere south of the Alexandra. The two complements had joined forces before the great ship began its journey downriver. I did not doubt, however, that they had been in close communication during the building of the great ship. Most, but not all, of those who were not Pani had been with Lord Nishida at Tarn Camp. Many had been recruited in Brundisium, and, over months, in larger and smaller numbers, in larger and smaller ships, had coasted north, thence at one rendezvous or another, to move overland, east to Tarn Camp. They were a motley lot, mostly mercenaries, several from the free companies, many once of the occupation forces in Ar. But amongst them as well were landless men, younger sons, men without Home Stones, bandits, pirates, adventurers, soldiers of fortune, thieves, fugitives, wanted men, cutthroats, fugitives from Ar, such as Seremides, and others. The Pani had apparently much gold to invest in recruitment, and had not been sparing or particular in its distribution. I sensed that it had been only after the great ship had been at sea for a time that the risks involved in assembling such men were better understood. The Pani, I suspected, perhaps because of their cultural background, in which certain values might be presupposed and never questioned, might have underestimated the dangers involved. Perhaps, too, given the exigencies of their task, whatever it might be, and its urgency and prospects, whatever they might be, they had been concerned to move as swiftly as would prove practical. Perhaps they felt they had had little time in which to be particular. Their final intention, in any case, I suspected, was to put together a formidable force as quickly as possible, a force of skilled and dangerous men, men free of certain indigenous and traditional loyalties, which, disciplined, and closely managed, might in unfamiliar, remote venues be well applied to the business of war.

“Disloyalty,” said Lord Okimoto, “is to be punished by death. It is our way. Those beneath you, on the slanted surface, were disloyal, and several behind me, now suitably subdued and tethered, were disloyal, as well.”

The mutineers who had, at Cabot’s word, discarded their weapons, and were now kneeling, bound and neck-roped, Pani about with drawn blades, looked at one another in apprehension, and surely to Cabot, as well.

“I see Tarl Cabot, tarnsman,” said Lord Nishida. “I would hear him speak.”

“His blade is unhoused,” said Lord Okimoto.

Cabot sheathed the gladius.

“Lords Okimoto and Nishida,” said Cabot, evenly. “Mutiny is done. Weapons were surrendered freely. Men have placed their lives and trust in your hands. Otherwise they would have died with weapons in hand. Men do not surrender to be slaughtered. That is not our way.”

“One wonders, Lord Nishida,” said Lord Okimoto, “if Tarl Cabot, tarnsman, is loyal.”

“He and others fought with us!” exclaimed Tajima.

Lord Okimoto looked at Tajima, with surprise.

“Forgive me, lord,” said Tajima, lowering his head. He had not been invited to speak.

“Where is Nodachi?” asked Lord Okimoto.

“He is on the deck, he meditates, he slew seven,” said Lord Nishida.

I did not know of whom they spoke, but I gathered his opinion might have been valued.

“Lords Okimoto and Nishida,” said Tarl Cabot. “Men did not wish to die. They fear the ice. They are hungry. They sought escape. They were desperate, crazed, not thinking.”

“The attack was well planned, well organized, well coordinated,” said Seremides. “That is not the way of crazed, unthinking men.”

“My esteemed colleague, the noble Rutilius of Ar,” said Cabot, “is well aware that a handful of uncrazed, thinking conspirators, men of malice and cunning, may organize, coordinate, and direct, the actions of others, men on the brink of despair and panic. It is my suspicion that this act was an attempt to conserve rations, to prolong the life of some by ending that of others, perhaps an attempt, even, to thin your forces, so as, eventually, to seize the ship.”

“Absurd!” cried Seremides.

“It is not clear, of course,” said Tarl Cabot, “who it might be who organized and arranged this mutiny.”

“It seems they are slain by now,” said Seremides.

“Perhaps, perhaps not,” said Tarl Cabot.

“I was unaware,” said Lord Okimoto, “that Tarl Cabot, tarnsman, had requested permission to speak.”

“I speak as I will,” said Cabot. “It is the way of my caste.”

“He is of the scarlet caste,” explained Lord Nishida.

“Ah,” said Lord Okimoto.

“Lords,” said Cabot, “I do not know our destination, nor your purpose, but the destination seems remote, and the purpose important. I think then that practicality, if not mercy, if not honor, should urge lenience in this matter.”

“May I speak?” asked Tajima.

Lord Nishida, with a slight motion of his head, granted this permission.

“Many months ago,” said Tajima, “we had been sorely defeated, and driven to the edge of the sea. Surely there are those of us here who remember that well. It was the fall of night that saved the few of us, no more than seven hundred, not even that, from the thousands with which we had begun. Never had there been such a battle. We were weary, and far outnumbered. Many were wounded, sick, and hungry. We waited for the morning, on the beach, to die. Then, by the will of whatever gods there be, by whatever names be theirs, we found ourselves, and gold, on a far shore. Now we would return. Those arrayed against us are many and formidable. I do not think we can spare one tarnsman, one spearman, one swordsman, one archer. I, too, speak for lenience.”

“There has been disloyalty,” said Lord Okimoto.

“I speak for lenience,” said Lord Nishida.

Suddenly many eyes turned toward the top of the ramp, to the open deck, where, now beside Lord Nishida, there stood a silent figure, clearly of the Pani. He wore a short robe, with wide sleeves. He was of medium height, but square in the shoulders. His ankles and wrists were thick. His hair was bound back. He carried a sword, which seemed almost a part of his hand. He was one of those who would not sleep lest such a blade lay at his side. His face was broad, his eyes bright. I could read no expression on his face, no more than upon a rock.

“Have you heard?” inquired Lord Okimoto of the figure.

It nodded, quickly, abruptly, and then, again, it was still, as still as if it might have been formed of rock, or carved of wood.

“It is Nodachi,” said one of the Pani.

I gathered from his observation, that it was not usual for this individual to be about, amongst them.

“What shall it be, honorable one?” asked Lord Okimoto.

The figure thrust his sword beneath his sash, and turned away.

“It is lenience,” said Lord Nishida.

“What does it matter,” cried Seremides. “We shall die on the ice anyway!”

The mutineers who had been on the ramp did not survive. There was not one who had not been struck by at least two arrows. It is not well to be the target of a Pani marksman. Cabot’s interposition, at the risk of his own life, had won at best a few moments more of life for those he had sought to protect. The tethered mutineers, some sixty or so, were taken below, in the custody of Pani, and put in chains.

“Those of the cavalry,” called Cabot, “return to your quarters.”

There were probably some twenty or thirty fellows there who were in his command.

Other officers, too, dismissed men.

Pani, too, began to file from the tarn hold. Lord Okimoto and Seremides had already departed.

I had understood little or nothing of that of which Tajima, the rider, had spoken, that about night, a battle, the waiting at the beach, and such. I did understand, and well, his concern to conserve men. In battle each man on one’s side is precious. Who, when the enemy appears at the horizon, would be willing to spare even a single slinger, in rags, with his sack of absurdly engraved lead pellets, let alone a spearman, or swordsman?

Cabot climbed up the ramp, to the open deck.

The fellow, Nodachi, was gone.

Hundreds of fellows were still below, either sealed in their quarters, or remaining there, given the instructions of Pani corridor guards. Many of these fellows would probably not even know, until later, what had been going on.

I trusted that Philoctetes had sought the care of a physician.

“Lord Nishida,” said Cabot, respectfully.

“I would have regretted losing the commander of the tarn cavalry,” said Lord Nishida.

Cabot smiled. “I, too,” he said.

“There was war here, on the deck,” said Lord Nishida.

“Clearly,” said Cabot, looking about.

The battle on the open deck had surged back and forth, for more than an Ahn, but then, obviously, in the end, the ship’s forces had triumphed.

“There were mutineers who fled to the deck, late in the war below,” said Cabot.

“Many had seized food, and there were ropes,” said Lord Nishida. “They went over the side, to the ice. Some fell to the water. There were sea sleen at the ice. Many succumbed. But most made it to the ice.”

“They hope to reach land, over the ice,” said Cabot.

“They will die on the ice,” said Lord Nishida.

“I fear few knew of the Stream of Torvald,” said Cabot.

“The Stream of Torvald?” asked Lord Nishida, curious.

“Yes,” said Cabot, “it is a warm current, a river in the sea, so to speak, pasangs wide, which keeps Torvaldsland from being ice locked in the winter.”

I shuddered. The ice, then, even in winter, would not reach Torvaldsland.

“I must attend to things below,” said Lord Nishida.

“Callias fought with us, and well,” said Cabot, indicating me.

“Of course,” said Lord Nishida. “He has, as I recall, what you speak of as a Home Stone.”

“Yes,” said Cabot, “he has a Home Stone.”

Cabot then took his leave and Lord Nishida went down the ramp to the tarn hold.

I followed him, as I thought to return to my quarters.

I stopped to examine one body. It was that of Aristodemus, he of Tyros. He had fought with the mutineers.

Lord Nishida stopped to regard two trussed mutineers. They were in the keeping of tarnkeepers.

“Why are these men not below, with the others?” he asked.

“He, and he,” cried a tarn keeper, “killed tarns.”

“I see,” said Lord Nishida.

There was then a shrill scream, of a raging tarn, angry and wild, in a nearby cage.

“Free them,” said Lord Nishida.

The tarnkeepers did this, with much reluctance.

The mutineers regarded one another with triumph.

“Now,” said Lord Nishida, “cut away their clothing, bloody them a little, and put them in the cage with the bird.”

“No!” cried the mutineers. “No!”

Eager tarnkeepers rushed upon them.

I exited the tarn hold through the same door through which the eight Pani and I had entered it earlier. Outside in the corridor, I heard hideous screams behind me.

I returned to my quarters.