Mercenaries of Gor

19 The Checkpoint

"They are gone!" I whispered, tensely.

"What are gone?" asked Hurtha, sitting up in the furs, a few feet from me. The camp had been stirring now for better than an Ahn.

"The letters of safety," I said, "those of safe conduct for our party." "What is wrong?" asked Boabissia, her hair wet and loose, come from the nearby stream, where she had washed it.

"Our letters of safety," I said, "are gone. I had them here, in the sheath." "Perhaps they have fallen out," she said.

"No," I said. "They were firmly lodged within. They could be withdrawn only purposefully."

"There is supposedly a checkpoint down the road," said Boabissia. "I heard of it last night."

"So, too, doubtless," said I, "did the thief."

"We were all about," said Boabissia. "How could anyone have done it?" "Presumably it could have been done only by one practiced in stealth, who knew for what he was searching, and where it might be found. He might even have had a tool for the extraction of the papers."

"The blade was in the sheath, was it not," asked Boabissia, "and the sheath beside you?"

"Yes," I said, "and the sheath was on its strap, slung about my shoulder. The blade would have had to be removed, I assume, and then replaced, after the extraction of the papers."

"Why would it be replaced?" asked Hurtha. "That the absence of the papers not be immediately noticed," I said. "I would not have noticed the matter had I not, as a matter of habit, this morning, tested the draw of the blade."

This habit, unnecessary and trivial though it may seem, is one inculcated in warriors, in many cities. The theory is not only that it is well to practice the draw frequently, as the first to draw may be the first to strike, but also to be familiar with it on a daily basis lest its parameters alter from time to time, due to such things as contractions and swellings of the leather, these having to do with temperature and moisture. Less obviously, but more deviously, the blade could be tightened, or even fastened, in the sheath by an enemy, by such means as a tiny wooden shim or plug, or a fine wire looped below the hilt. The practicing of the draw, and the associated testing of sheath resistance, is a small, but seldom neglected detail, in the practice of arms.

"Such skill seems impossible," said Boabissia. "Who is there who could of done such a thing?"

"Some warriors could have done it," I said. "Many red savages could have done it."

"But who is about here?" asked Boabissia.

"Some thief," I said, "one who is highly skillful, one worthy even of the thief's scar of Port Kar, though I doubt he wears it." The thief's scar in Port Kar is a tiny, three pronged brand, burned into the face over the right cheekbone. It marks the members of the Caste of Thieves in Port Kar. That is the only city in which, as far as I know, there is a recognized caste for thieves. They tend to be quite proud of their calling, it being handed down often from father to son. There are various perquisites connected with membership in this caste, among them, if one is a professional thief, protection from being hunted down and killed by caste members, who tend to be quite jealous of their various territories and prerogatives. Because of the caste of thieves there is probably much less thievery in Port Kar than in most cities of comparable size. They regulate their numbers and craft in much the same way that, in many cities, the various castes, such as those of the metal workers or cloth workers, do theirs. "Feiqa," said Boabissia. "Yes, Mistress?" said Feiqa, frightened. The lovely slave had knelt immediately, being addressed by a free person.

"Did you see anything?" asked Boabissia.

"No, Mistress," said Feiqa, putting her head down.

"Stupid slave," said Boabissia.

"Yes, Mistress," whispered Feiqa, not looking up.

"Are such papers needed at the checkpoint?" asked Hurtha.

"Quite possibly," I said. "We are near Ar. I do not know."

"In this camp," said Boabissia, "it seems unlikely that there could have been so skilled a thief."

"Not necessarily," I said.

"I think Feiqa took them," said Boabissia.

"No, Mistress!" cried Feiqa.

"Let her be tortured for truth," said Boabissia. It is legal in Gorean courts for the testimony of slaves to be taken under torture. Indeed, it is commonly done.

"Please, no, Mistress!" wept Feiqa.

"It would have been difficult for her to have done so," I told Boabissia, "for last night her hands were chained behind her, that she might awaken me intimately, not using her hands, at dawn."

"Disgusting," said Boabissia.

"I then put her to her back and caressed her, while recovering, until she begged to be put to further use, to which plea I acceded. I then, when pleased to do so, a time or so later released her."

"Disgusting," said Boabissia.

"But she is only a slave," I said.

"True," said Boabissia. Then she looked at Feiqa. "Slut," she said. "Yes, Mistress," said Feiqa, not meeting her eyes.

How Boabissia hated Feiqa! Did she really think it was wrong, or improper for Feiqa to give her master such incredible pleasure? I did not think so. Feiqa, after all, was a slave. It was one of her purposes. I think it was rather that she was intensely jealous of Feiqa, that she keenly resented that she, the proud Boabissia, being free, was not subject to the same imperious enforcements. "No thief so skilled, surely," said Boabissia, "would be with the refugees," She continued to regard the trembling Feiqa balefully. "It must have been the slave. Let her be tortured."

Feiqa moaned.

"It could not have been Feiqa," I said to Boabissia. "Last night her hands were secured," I reminded her, "chained behind her back."

"Then who?" asked Boabissia.

"Perhaps you," said Hurtha, coming up behind Boabissia and holding her by the upper arms, from behind. His grasp, I gathered, was not gentle.

"No," said Boabissia. "No!" She squirmed. She was as helpless as a slave in Hurtha's grip.

"Perhaps it is you who should be put under torture," growled Hurtha.

"No, no!" said Boabissia. "I am free."

"It would not be impossible for a skilled thief to be with the refugees," I said. "It would be necessary only that he, or she, had been turned out of Torcadino with other citizens."

"Do you know of such a person?" asked Hurtha.

"Yes," I said.

"Who?" asked Hurtha.

"Wait here," I said.

"Who?" asked Hurtha.

"One called Ephialtes, of Torcadino," I said. "I was warned about him." "Let me come with you," he said. "I shall break his neck."

"That will not recover the letters," I said. "Wait here."

"Some of the carts, and many of the refugees, have already left," said Boabissia, pulling her free of Hurtha's hands, he loosening his grip. She was shaking. She was not accustomed to having been so helplessly in the power of a man, as helplessly, it might seem, as might have been a slave.

"Please, Mistress," wept Feiqa. "I did not steal the letters. I could not have done so, even if I had dared to do so, which I would not in my life have dared to do. Do not ask to have Feiqa tortured. Please be kind to Feiqa." "You are a slave," snapped Boabissia, "and, as such, are subject to torture, or to whatever free persons desire to do to you."

"Yes, Mistress," wept Feiqa, shuddering.

"Wait here," I said.

Boabissia made as though to accompany me, but Hurtha's hand on her arm stayed her.

"Aii!" cried the fellow, startled, in pain. My hand had closed on the back of his neck. I then forced him to his knees, and then to his belly. He squirmed. I thrust his nose and mouth into the soft earth. Instantly he was quiet. I permitted him to lift his head a little. He coughed and gasped.

"Where are they?" I asked him.

"What?" he said, wildly, spitting out dirt.

"The letters, three of them," I said.

"You cannot rob me here," he said. "There are too many about!"

To be sure, some of the refugees had gathered about us.

"Do not interfere," I warned them.

"Where are the letters?" I demanded.

"What letters?" he asked.

I again thrust his face into the dirt. He coughed and spit, and twisted his head to the side, gasping.

"Where are they?" I demanded.

"I know nothing of letters," he gasped.

"Do not interfere," I warned those about. More than one of them carried heavy clubs.

I then with a length of binding fiber, extracted from my pouch, tied his ankles together, and then fastened his hands to his ankles. He turned to his side. I then, methodically, began to go through his belongings.

"What are you doing?" he asked. "Stop him," he called to those about. A man or two took a step forward, but none challenged me.

"He is armed," said one of the fellows to the trussed captive.

"I do not find them here," I said to the crowd. "What is he looking for?" asked a fellow, just come up to the group. "Letters of some sort," said a fellow to the newcomer.

"Where are they?" I asked the captive, again.

"I know nothing of your letters, or whatever they are," he said. "Let me go!" "Let him go," suggested a fellow in the crowd. To be sure he did not step boldly forth.

"What do you think you are doing?" asked another fellow.

"Let him go," said another man. That one I saw.

"This fellow," I said to the crowd, "is a thief. He stole three letters from me. I mean to have them back."

"I am not a thief," said the man.

"Did you see him steal the letters?" asked a fellow.

"No," I said.

"Did someone else, then?" said the fellow.

"No," I said, irritably.

"How do you know he took them then?" asked a fellow. It seemed a fair question. "You have not recovered the letters from him," said another. "Does that not suggest that you might be mistaken? I opened the fellow's pouch. It contained coins, but there were no letters within it.

I poured the coins back into the pouch, and pulled shut its drawstrings.

"Where have you hidden the letters? I asked the fellow. My voice was not pleasant.

"I do not know anything about your letters," he whispered. I think he had little doubt that I was in earnest. He was frightened.

"Have you sold them already?" I asked.

"I do not know anything bout them," he said. "Are you not a thief?" "No," I said.

"Release him," said a man.

"You have no proof," said another.

"He has a sword," said a man. "He does not need proof."

"Let the fellow go," said another man.

"He is a thief," I said, angrily. "I am not a thief," said the fellow.

"He is not a thief," said another man.

"He is a well-known thief from Torcadino," I said.

"Nonsense," said a man.

"Who do you think he is?" asked another fellow.

"Ephialtes, of Torcadino," I said.

"I am not Ephialtes," said the man.

"He is not Ephialtes," said another fellow.

"He has been so identified for me, days ago." I said.

"And who made this identification?" asked a fellow.

"I do not now see him about," I said.

"That is not Ephialtes," said a man.

"Even if it were," said another fellow, "you apparently did not see the theft, and do not have clear evidence, even of a circumstantial nature, that he is the culprit." The fellow who had said this wore the blue of the scribes. He may even have been a scribe of the law.

"Release him," suggested another fellow.

"I am Philebus, a vintner, of Torcadino, said the man.

"He is lying," I said.

"That is Philebus," said a man. "I have dealt with him."

"Release him," said a man.

I untied the fellow. "Put your things back in your pack," I said. I watched him do this. The pack might have had a false lining. Still I had not felt the resistance of letters, nor heard the sound of paper from it, when I had tested it.

"Cart Seventeen is ready to leave!" I heard called.

"That is my cart," said the fellow, thrusting the last of his various articles, strewn about, into the pack.

"It is mine, too, as well you know," I said. "Do not fear. I shall accompany you to the cart and see that you board safely." I had no intention of letting him out of my sight. Although I had no proof of the sort which might convince a praetor I was confident that it was Ephialtes of Torcadino who had stolen the letters. It was ironic. I had ridden in the very cart with him.

"We are ready to go," said Boabissia coming up to me.

"The cart is going to leave." "I know," I said. "I heard. Go along, you." I thrust the fellow before me, toward the carts.

I stood near the front railing of the cart. I did look back to make sure the fellow was still on the bench where I had placed him. "That is the checkpoint ahead?" I asked the driver, as I leaned over the railing.

"Yes," he said, lifting his head and speaking back over his shoulder. "You will all get out here, and those who pass will board again, on the other side. There are no refunds, if you do not pass. Such failures are not the responsibility of the company."

"We are only a day from Ar," said a fellow.

"There is the barrier," said another, coming to stand beside me at the railing. "Look," said another, joining us. "Look at that poor sleen." He indicated a small figure near the checkpoint, impaled on a high pole, lifted some twenty feet above the heads of the refugees.

"Among the crowds there," I said, suddenly, pointing, "there are soldiers with purple cloaks and helmets." I had not seen such things in years, since the time of the usurper, Cernus, in Ar, dethroned long ago in the restoration of Marlenus, ubar of ubars.

"Those are Taurentians, members of the elite palace guard," said a man. "The Taurentians were disbanded in 10,119," I said.

"They have been restored to favor," said a man.

"Had you not heard?" asked another.

"No," I said. The sight of Taurentians made me uneasy. Such men, with their internal esprit de corps, their identification with their own units, their allegiance to their personal commanders, their status, privileges and skills, their proximity to the delicate fulcrums of power, hold in their hands the power to enthrone and dethrone ubars.

"It was done only this year," said a man.

"They are fine soldiers," said another.

"I know," I said. I had met them in combat, as long ago as the sands of the Stadium of Blades. There is a common myth, given their post in the city, that Taurentians are spoiled, and soft. This myth is false. They are elite troops, highly trained and devoted to their commanders. One does not gain admittance to their coveted ranks in virtue of mediocre skills or poor condition. The current year was 10,13 °C.A. In the chronology of Port Kar, it was Year 11 in the Sovereignty of the Council of Captains. Their captain, when I had known them long ago, had been Saphronicus of Ar. Seremides of Tyros, in those days, had been a high general of Ar. He, appointed through the influence of Cernus, who was soon to ascend the throne of Ar, had replaced the venerated hero, Maximus Hegesius Quintilius of Ar, who had earlier expressed reservations concerning the investiture of Cernus, a merchant and slaver, in the caste of warriors. Maximus Hegesius Quintilius was later found assassinated in his own pleasure gardens, slain there by the bite of a chemically prepared poison girl, one killed by Taurentians before she could be questioned. Such an appointment, of course, that of one of Tyros to such a post, later would have been unthinkable, given the developing frictions between Ar and Cos, and her mighty ally, Tyros, frictions largely consequent upon competitions in the valley of the Vosk. After the defeat and deposition of Cernus, so briefly a ubar, I had seen both Saphronicus and Seremides in chains before Marlenus, then again upon the throne. They had both, with other high traitorous officers, been ordered to Port Kar, in chains, to be sold to the galleys.

One of the figures in the purple cloak and helmet stood out from the others near the side of the road and lifted his hand.

The driver pulled back on the reins of his tharlarion and the beast slowed, grunting. The high-wheeled cart halted.

"Passengers alight and take your places in the line to the right," said the driver. "I am going in the wagon line. Rejoin me on the far side of the barrier, in the wagon line." He had been here before.

"How will be able to pass?" whispered Boabissia, whom I helped down, through the cart gate. "You no longer have the letters."

"I am not sure," I said. "But surely most of the folks here do not have letters." I kept my eye on the fellow who had called himself Philebus, claiming to be a vintner of Torcadino. I had no intention of letting him out of my sight. If letters were required, and he presented those stolen from me, I would find that of interest. I would also, when the opportunity presented itself, an opportunity which I would see to it would present itself, break his arms and legs.

"Waiting, waiting," complained Hurtha. "I think that I shall compose a poem on the insolencies of bureaucracy."

"A good idea," I said.

"Done!" he said.

"Done?" I asked.

"It is a short poem," he said. "Would you care to hear it?"

"It must be quite short," I said.

"Yes," said Hurtha.

"I would be pleased to hear it," I said, keeping my eyes on the so-called Philebus.

"Lines, lines, lines, lines, lines, lines, lines," began Hurtha.

"Wait," I said. "There is only one word in the poem?" I began to suspect I had penetrated the secret of the poem's swift completion.

"No," said Hurtha, "already there are more than a half dozen. Count them. " "Lines, lines, lines, lines, lines, lines, lines.

"Yes," I said, "you are right."

The lines moved forward a few feet. I kept my eyes on the so-called Philebus. "Lines, lines, lines, lines, lines, lines, lines, lines," said Hurtha. "You are starting again?" I asked.

"No," he said, "I am picking up from where I left off. Do you really want to hear this poem?"

"Yes, of course," I said. I began to suspect that certain basic civilities, hitherto regarded as largely innocent, retained from my English upbringing, might not be wholly without occasional disadvantages.

"Then do not interrupt," said Hurtha.

"Sorry," I said.

"Those lines, lines, lines, lines, lines, lines, lines are very long, those long lines, lines, lines, lines, lines, lines, lines."

"Yes, they are," I granted him.

"What?" asked Hurtha.

"Those lines," I said, "they are pretty long."

"Yes," agreed Hurtha, somewhat suspiciously. "Please do not interrupt." "Sorry," I chuckled. After all, how often does a common fellow like myself get a chance to put one over on a poet.

"You are quite a wit," observed Boabissia.

"Thank you," I said. But, from the tone of her voice, I suspected her compliment was not to be taken at face value. I think she was prejudiced somewhat by her affection for the stocky larl, Hurtha. I did not think it was to be explained by her love of poetry. I did glance back to Feiqa. She was smiling. She was obviously of high intelligence. Then, observing herself the object of my scrutiny, she put down her head, quickly, even more humbly than was perhaps required under the circumstances. After all, her neck was in a collar.

"Be pleased that Hurtha does not strike you to the ground with a heavy blow," said Boabissia.

"I am pleased," I said. "I am pleased."

"If I may continue," said Hurtha.

"Please," I said.

" "Those long lines, lines, lines, lines, lines, lines, lines they make me tired, those long lines, lines, lines, lines, lines, lines, lines, " said Hurtha.

I could believe it. But I refrained from comment.

" "I do not like them, those long lines, those long lines, lines, lines, lines, lines, lines, lines, " said Hurtha.

"Is that it?" I asked.

"That is the first verse," said Hurtha. "Also, I am catching my breath." "I thought you said it was a short poem," I said.

"You needn't listen if you do not wish to," said Hurtha. "I can recite it to Boabissia."

"No, no," I said. "I just thought you said it was a short poem."

"It was, when I said that," he said. "But I have since expanded it. Does the subject matter not seem worthy to you of a more substantial treatment?" "Of course," I said.

Our own lines moved forward a few steps.

"You do not like it?" asked Hurtha.

"It is wonderful," I said. "It is only that I am not sure that it is as wonderful as many of your other poems."

"What is wrong with it?" he asked.

"It seems to me perhaps a bit long," I said. "Also, it may be a bit repetitious."

" "Repetitious'?" he asked, in disbelief.

"Yes," I said. For example, with respect to the word "lines'." I kept my eye on the fellow before me, the so-called Philebus, he who claimed to be a vintner from Torcadino.

Hurtha burst out laughing and, tears in his eyes, seized me by the arms. I kept an eye on the so-called Philebus, lest he take this opportunity to take to his heels.

"My poor, dear sweet friend," said Hurtha. "How simple you are, dear friend! How little you know of poetry! The length is deliberate, of course, constituting an implicit allegory of interminability, manifesting and conveying in no uncertain manner, but in one which perhaps you have not as yet full grasped, the withering tedium of the bureaucratic assault on the spirit and senses of man!"

"Oh," I said.

"Too, similarly pungent and subtle is the recurrent emphasis on the expression "lines', which, on a level and in a dimension to which I have hopes you may yet attain, forcefully enunciates and clarifies not only the concept but more significantly the emotional significance of lines, those inevitable attributes, attaining in themselves an almost symbolic grandeur, of the perfidious bureaucratic infection."

"I see," I said.

"May I now continue?" he asked.

"Please, do," I said. I was so overawed by Hurtha's exposition that the so-called Philebus might then have slipped away unnoticed, but when I checked he had not done so. He did not wish to lose his place in line, it seemed. I decided that I, as a simple soldier, and unpretentious fellow devoted to the profession of arms, had best reserve judgement on such things as poets and poetry. It was dangerous, weighty stuff. I felt a sudden twinge of jealousy for Hurtha. He was both a warrior and a poet.

Hurtha then regaled us with his poem, which, truly, seemed to capture something of the inscrutability and ponderousness of the institution which had inspired it. I listened in awe, keeping my attention from time to time, and actually rather often, as my attention wandered, on the so-called Philebus. Boabissia, as I occasionally noted, with an admixture of skepticism and envy, seemed enraptured. Feiqa's countenance was cheerfully inscrutable. She would not meet my eyes. The so-called Philebus seemed as though he might desire to withdraw from our vicinity now and then, even giving up his place inline, particularly when Hurtha would come to an often-repeated, stirring refrain, but my hand on his collar kept him in his place. I will not attempt to give Hurtha's poem in its entirety, but I think I may have suggested something of its drift already. I might also mention that it is possible that it might lose something in the reading of it. Poetry, after all, or most poetry, is presumably meant to be heard, not read. It is intended for the ear, not the eye. And certainly the mere reading of it could scarcely convey the impact of hearing it proclaimed in the living voice, and particularly in a voice such as Hurtha's.

The line had been moving along rapidly enough, incongruous though this might have seemed, given the thesis of Hurtha's poem. We were now rather near the checkpoint.

"You are a Taurentian, are you not?" I asked a fellow in a purple helmet. He did not answer me.

"You are a bit far from Ar, for Taurentians, are you not?" I inquired. We must be at least a day from Ar. It did not seem to make much sense to me that Taurentians, supposedly the palace guard, though they also patrol certain portions of the city, should be this far abroad, particularly in these troubled times.

He turned away from me, not answering me.

"A surly fellow," remarked Hurtha, somewhat offended. We were now a few yards from the checkpoint. Only a few feet away, set off from the road a little, on our right, was the impaling pole we had seen from the cart. It was some six inches in diameter. On it was a small body. It had apparently been twisted and jerked until the point of the pole had emerged through the chest. It had then been drawn down the pole better than a yard. I could see some ribs erupted through the tunic. Its limbs were askew, hanging downward. The pole itself was red with blood. Nailed to it were some papers, fluttering in the wind.

"Wait," I said.

"What is it?" asked Boabissia.

"We know that fellow do we not?" I said, looking up to the impaled body. Boabissia averted her eyes, sick. Feiqa did not raise her head.

"He seems familiar," admitted Hurtha.

"He should," I said. "He came with us from Torcadino. He was our fellow passenger for several days."

I looked up at the dangling head. The mouth was open. The roof of the mouth would be exposed. I could see the upper teeth. From the upper lip, on either side, the two ends of the mustache dangled back, as the head hung, on the sides of the neck, like two pieces of oiled string.

"So they have finally caught up with him," said the fellow before us.

"Yes," agreed a man a place or two behind us.

"Do you know him?" I asked the fellow before us.

"Of course," said the man. "He is well known to everyone in Torcadino." "Hold my place," I said to Hurtha.

"I do not think any will strive to take it," said Hurtha, adjusting his ax on his shoulder, cheerfully looking about himself.

I walked to the side where the pole had been set up. I examined the papers nailed to the pole. They were partly ripped by the wind, and were stained with blood, where the blood had run down the pole.

"What are you doing there?" said a Taurentian. "What was his crime?" I asked.

"Carrying false papers," he said.

"I see," I said.

"Return to your place," said the Taurentian.

I returned to my place.

"Do you know that fellow?" I asked the fellow before me, he whom I had treated so harshly.

"Of course," he said.

"It was he who identified you as Ephialtes of Torcadino, to me," I said. "I am Philebus of Torcadino," said the man.

"Do you know who he is?" I asked.

"Of course," he said. "That is your man. That is Ephialtes of Torcadino." "I am sorry for the way in which I treated you," I said.

"My bruises rejoice," said the fellow.

"I am really sorry," I said. "I hope I did not hurt your feelings." "My feelings are fine," he said. "It is only my body which was damaged. It is only that which, as a whole, is in acute misery."

"I am really very sorry," I said.

"It could have been far worse," he said. "Think how sorry you would have had to have been, had you broken my neck before you discovered your error."

"That is right," said Hurtha. "There is much to be thankful for."

"What were the papers?" asked Boabissia.

"I shall tell you later," I said.

"Next," said a Taurentian. "You, there, what is your business in Ar?" "I am a vintner," said the fellow before me. "I was put out of Torcadino. I have relatives in Ar. It is my intention to seek caste asylum in Ar."

"Have you papers?" asked the Taurentian.

"I have documents certifying my caste standing," he said. He then produced some papers from his pack.

The Taurentian then wrote a notation on the papers and motioned him ahead. "I am called Tarl," I said, stepping forward. "I am from Port Kar, a city neutral to Ar. My friend is Hurtha, an Alar. The free woman is Boabissia, a woman from the Alar camp. The shapely collar slut bearing my pack is mine. I call her Feiqa. We are venturing to Ar on various errands, such as the seeking of our fortunes." The use of "we' in the sentence, of course, was understood, as is common in Gorean, to refer only to free persons. The collar slut, Feiqa, my lovely slave, was along only as any other animal in such a situation might be along, because her master had brought her.

"Have you papers?" asked the man.

"No," I said.

"You have no papers whatsoever?" asked the man.

"No," I said. "We have none whatsoever."

He looked at me for a moment, and then he waved us through. Boabissia was shuddering. In a few Ehn we had climbed up through the cart gate and, beyond the checkpoint, were again moving toward Ar.

As we left the checkpoint it was not toward Ar that I looked but back toward the checkpoint. There I could still see people waiting in line, and other carts coming up to the point. I could also see the twisted, bent body of Ephialtes of Torcadino on the impaling pole, and the flutter of papers nailed to it. I had been a fool. It had been Ephialtes of Torcadino himself who had cleverly directed my attention away from himself, focusing it on an innocent vintner. In a way I had to admire him. It seemed clear to me now that, in asking if I was carrying valuables, he had tricked me into inadvertently betraying their hiding place, by the incipient movement of my hand toward the sheath. Too, he had certainly removed the letters of safety from my sheath with great skill, even replacing he blade. Had I not checked the draw this morning, as is my wont, I might not have known the papers were missing until I arrived at the checkpoint. I had determined, incidentally, that the deeper papers, the letters, some addressed to Ar's regent, Gnieus Lelius, and the others to her high general, Seremides, were still in the sheath. I now had strong, mixed feelings about them. I was now convinced more than ever of their importance, but also of the danger of carrying them.

The Taurentians were far from Ar. I suspected that it was their mission, on behalf of some high-placed power in Ar, to sift through refugees and travelers, seeking out those who might be inimical to their interests, or party, in Ar. I now understood more clearly than before why earlier messengers or agents might have failed to make contact with the regent and high general. I was, I recalled, seemingly not the first to have been dispatched upon this delicate mission. Doubtless Ephialtes, in possession of the letters of safety, had been mistaken for an agent of Dietrich of Tarnburg. I shuddered. I was pleased that it had been Ephialtes, and not I, who had presented the letters at the checkpoint. Probably, at the demand of the officer, I would have surrendered them. And doubtless, if not here, then somewhere else I might have surrendered them, in some context, or upon some demand, somewhere or another.

I smiled bitterly. Letters of safety, indeed! They had not been letters of safety so much, it seemed, as death warrants, or orders for execution, laden with mortal peril for any so bold or foolish as to carry them. I saw the small figure of Ephialtes disappearing now in the distance. He had sought to steal protection but had purloined only death. He had been caught like some tiny insect in a dark and terrible web, once whose existence he had not even suspected.

"What were the papers nailed to the pole?" asked Boabissia.

"Our letters of safety," I told her. Then I turned about to look ahead, down the road. "We will be in Ar tomorrow morning," I told her. "Perhaps from the night's camp you will be able to see her lights."

"Is Ar a great city?" she asked.

"Yes," I said.