Mariners of Gor

Chapter Twelve

It was night.

It was cold.

The rain was fitful, I could see the Prison Moon.

I was on the platform, within the ring, that on the forward mast, or foremast.

Far below, on the deck, dimly, I could see the small, tunicked figure, still bound to the second mast, her hands fastened above her head, five strands of rope about her belly, pulling her back, tightly, against the wood. A free man had found her displeasing. She would doubtless soon learn to be more pleasing. It is what she is for.

On the deck, during the day, the weather was warm enough, certainly. To our pleasure, the slaves had been returned to their tunics. It is extremely pleasant to see a barefoot slave, in a tunic or less. On the platform, however, within the ring, it can be quite chilly, even when it is warm below. And now, at night, it was indeed unpleasant. Within my cloak I shivered. Should the rain continue, the cloak would be soaked. Miserable, too, I thought, would be the small thing bound below. Her head was down. The tiny tunic, of rep cloth, clung about her. She would learn to be a better slave.

As I suppose I have made clear, I am not by caste of the Mariners. It is one thing to draw an oar, and do one thing or another about a ship, even to be of its fighting complement, and quite another to read the weather, and water, and the stars, to plot courses, to keep a steady helm in a hard sea, to manage lines and rigging, and such. There were, of course, things I could do, such as keep a high watch, as I was now doing. The platform and ring, and each mast had such an arrangement, are near the summit of the mast, and encircle it, allowing the lookout to move about the mast. In this fashion, if it desired, there may be more than one lookout on each platform, within each ring. To be sure, usually only one ring and platform was manned, and that by a single lookout, commonly, as tonight, that of the foremast. It is different, of course, if one is in dangerous waters, fears an attack, or such.

I clung to the ring, which was cold, and wet, that I might be steadied. The motion of the ship, whether its side to side rolling, or yaw, or its plunging, the lifting and falling of the bow, its pitch, is exaggerated at the height of the mast. It takes time for one of the land, say, an infantryman like myself, to accustom himself to the sea, but I had managed this well enough, quickly enough, after two or three days in the Metioche, but this had little prepared me for the high watch here, with the distance and violence of the mast’s motion. Such, for a time, can disconcert and sicken even a seasoned mariner. Perhaps that is why the high watches are usually restricted to selected crewmen, who manage the watch regularly. I was now, with several others, frequently assigned such a watch. In the beginning it is well not to look down, or at the water, to the side. It helps to keep one’s view away from the ship, and to the horizon, which, in any event, is where it should be, anyway. After two or three days of the high watch one’s body, one’s belly, one’s sense of balance, and such, are likely to adjust to the motion. Some adapt more quickly than others, of course, and it is from these that the high watches are usually drawn. Some men, interestingly, find themselves unable, apparently indefinitely, or, at least, within a reasonable time, to make the pertinent accommodations. To be sure, in fair weather a high watch is not all that different from a deck watch, or a stem- or stern-castle watch. After the first few days I was no longer bothered by the high watch, and, given a decency of weather, had begun to enjoy it. You are away from things, and seem closer to the wind, the clouds, and sunlight, and, all about, for pasangs, stretches the vast, encompassing ambiguity of Thassa, subtle and minacious, welcoming and threatening, benignant and perilous, restless, sparkling, and dangerous, green, vast, intriguing, beckoning Thassa. It is easy to see how she calls to men, she is so alluring and beautiful, and it is easy, as well, to see how, with her might and whims, her moods and power, she may inspire fear in the stoutest of hearts. Be warned, for the wine of Thassa is a heady wine. She may send you gentle winds and shelter you in her great arms, bearing you up, or should she please, break you and draw you down, destroying you, to mysterious, unsounded deeps. In her cups you may find many things, the unalienable riches of moonlight on water, her whispering in long nights, against the hull, her unforgettable glory in the morning, the brightness of her noontide, the transformations of her sunset and dusk, her access to far shores, the sublime darkness of her anger, the lashing and howling of her winds, the force and authority of her waves, like pitching mountains. She is the love of the Caste of Mariners. She is a heady wine. Her name is Thassa.

The wind changed.

The rain became heavier.

The glass of the Builders was on its strap, across my chest. As most of the lookouts, I had fastened a safety rope about my waist. One can lose one’s footing, particularly in heavy weather, or when the platform is iced, and slip between the platform and the ring, which is waist high.

I felt the first rattle of hail.

We had had two hail storms of great severity when farther north, storms such as those which, in the Barrens, north and east of the Voltai, sometimes decimate flocks of migrating birds, striking them from the sky, flocks which, obedient to their hereditary imperatives, refuse to land and seek shelter. Sails had been quickly reefed, lest, by a rare, larger stone, they might be cut. Hundreds of tiny impressions marked the deck. In places a larger stone had splintered a plank, or gouged a railing. Some stones were the size of a man’s fist. All hands had soon been ordered below deck. The tarns had been much agitated by the pounding on the deck above them. There was little to fear now, however, as storms of that severity seldom, if ever, occur at this latitude. Still I backed against the mast, and drew the hood of my cloak over my head.

The hail picked up a little.

It was not a serious hail, but it would keep the deck largely untenanted.

I now suspect that had much to do with what occurred.

I looked back, below, to see the slave, punishment-bound, at the second mast. Her feet were bare, as is common with a slave in good weather. Free women feel that a slave, as she is an animal, should not be shod, no more than a verr or kaiila, but such things are, of course, up to the master. Some slaves, high slaves, may have sandals, even slippers, set with precious stones, but a free woman is likely to order them to remove such presumptuous footwear in their presence, and sometimes to bring them to them, dangling from their mouths, humbly, head down, on all fours, rather as a pet sleen or slave might bring footwear to her master. Little love is lost between the free woman and the slave. Interestingly, the female slave is honored to bring footwear in her teeth, head down, humbly, on all fours, to her master, as the animal she knows herself to be. “I am yours, your beast, Master. May I be found pleasing.” She is then likely to kiss his feet, place them carefully within the sandals, and tie them for him, following which she is likely to again kiss his feet, back a bit away, and then kneel before him, head down. She is his slave. He is her master. It is quite different, of course, before another woman. What right has one woman, only herself a woman, to so shame, crush, and mortify another woman? This is not the natural relationship of a woman to a man, but a cruelly humiliating, unjustified, unnatural travesty of a biologically ordained rightness. Are they not both females, both fittingly the possessions of men, merely that one is collared and one not? Why does the free woman so hate the slave? Does she envy the trembling slave that lovely band fastened about her throat, proclaiming her beauty and desirability? Does she envy her her happiness, her contentment, her fulfillment, her master? “Would you be so different from me, proud mistress,” might wonder the slave, “were you tunicked, as I, and your neck encircled, as mine, in a similar claiming device?”

The deck was wet, and cold.

Below, her hair was dark, and long, and, now wet, was much about her face. Sometimes she had lifted her head, her face white and rain-streaked, to look up at me, but I had paid her little attention, and she would soon put her head down, again. Her figure, always of interest, had been improved, I thought, since the beginning of the voyage. This had to do with the regimes of diet and exercise imposed upon her. One may do much what one wants with animals, to improve them. As her vitality and health improved she, well-collared, now a mere pleasure animal, like her sisters, would twist ever more helplessly in her bonds. Slavery much increases the sexual appetites and needs of a female, until they can become almost unbearable.

I looked about, though with the clouds, the darkness, the rain, the spattering of hail, there was not much to see.

The deck was now muchly deserted, given the darkness and weather, save for the helmsman, the stem-castle watch, the slave, and two men maintaining the deck watch. The first deck watch had been relieved; the second was now on duty. I would later learn its nature.

I had come to enjoy, and look forward, to the high watches. Solitude on a ship is rare, and the high watch afforded one of the few opportunities on a ship, say, a round ship, and certainly on the ship of Tersites, to be alone. And, when one is alone, one thinks. It was clear to me that Seremides, serving in the retinue of Lord Okimoto, as a bodyguard, viewed me as a threat, as I could recognize him from Ar. Some of those closest to him, and, I feared, in desperate league with him, such as Tyrtaios, in the service of Lord Nishida, might know him only as a master swordsman, Rutilius of Ar. I did not know. I would later learn of five originally suspect men, not of the Pani, armsmen, originally with Lord Nishida, of which number Tyrtaios was but one, the others being Quintus, Telarion, Fabius, and Lykourgos. Two, however, Quintus and Lykourgos, had somehow perished in the great forest, during the march from Tarncamp to the Alexandra. I had no reason to believe, however, that this had anything to do with Seremides. Certainly I had heard of no altercations with him. I knew little or nothing of Telarion and Fabius. I felt I knew much of Tyrtaios.

Every once in a while I glanced back, and down, at the bound slave. Her name was Alcinoe. Originally, she had been from Ar. She still had something to learn about her collar. That was why she was bound as she was. Sometimes it takes a little time for a woman to realize that she is now only a slave. But in time they understand this quite well, at a man’s feet.

I was careful not to be alone with Seremides, and refrained from entering into converse with him, even when he seemed the most congenial. I had seen in Ar, more than once, how the most seemingly innocent discourse could be suddenly, cleverly, twisted into a provocative quarrel, and an exchange of insults, leading to swords, commonly in a park or in the Plaza of Tarns, at dawn, when few were about. One advantage of the high watches, as opposed to deck watches, corridor duty, stores guarding, work in the sail room, and such, is that it is difficult to be approached. Indeed, I had been suggested to Aetius for the high watches by the tarnsman, Tarl Cabot. Interestingly, beyond this, he had often kept me near him, as though I might be a guardsman. In such times, of course, I was armed. In any event, I suspected that the fact that I was still alive might be due in no small part to the tarnsman, Tarl Cabot. His sword, it seemed, stood between Seremides and Callias. But, too, I thought, and shivered, perhaps more was involved, more than I had suspected? Might it not be I, Callias, who would serve to lure Seremides in? Clearly there was bad blood between the tarnsman and Seremides. Might there not be then some trap I did not understand, in which I might be the bait?

How astonished I had been when it had become clear to me that the tarnsman, Tarl Cabot, did not fear Seremides, but, on the contrary, appeared ready to welcome an opportunity to match steel with him, and how more astonished I had been to note that Seremides was clearly reluctant to accept such a match. What sort of man might be the tarnsman, Tarl Cabot? But even the finest steel is of little avail against poison, against an Anango dart at the base of the skull, against a knife in the back.

I looked down, and back, again.

It is pleasant to look upon a slave, particularly a beautiful, well-formed slave. I wondered how she might perform on the block. They are encouraged to do well. It is not pleasant to be returned to the cage, unsold.

How desperately they strive to please the auctioneer, to present themselves as superb merchandise, as goods well worth bringing home! How they strive to win a buyer!

It is not pleasant to be returned to the cage, unsold.

Too, if they sell for more money, they are likely to have a better-fixed master, a prettier collar, a better kennel, a better diet, an easier life, perhaps even sandals.

In any event, it is not well to be returned the cage unsold. That can be distinctly unpleasant.

It was the third month, the first week past the second passage hand. This is the month which in Ar is called Camerius. In other places it has other names, in Cos the month of Lurius, named for our great Ubar, whose palaces and fortresses are in Jad. In Ko-ro-ba, it is spoken of as Selnar. I do not know how it is spoken of amongst you, in Brundisium. Ah, the month of Policrates! Very well, let it be so. In any event, it was the third month.

Our course from the ice had been south and west.

There were few on deck, from the Ahn, somewhat past the Eighteenth, from the bars, and from the miseries of the weather.

While we were at table, the girls, as expected, had served. They had been clad in modest tunics. This was no Ubar’s victory feast, in which the daughters of the conquered, still free, must serve naked. Some decorum must be preserved, if only for the sake of the ship’s discipline. Paga slaves, house slaves, pleasure slaves, and such, serve one way at the low tables common in households, inns, taverns, and such, and rather differently at the ship’s tables, which are higher, and which are, as are the benches, fastened in place, this to prevent shifting in rough seas. The benches anchor one in place, so to speak, as sitting cross-legged at the low tables would not. Too, one may hold to the table itself, which is, incidentally, bordered by a slightly raised rim, or sometimes by a small railing, this helping to keep things in place. Goblets are weighted, for steadiness, and plates are flat-bottomed, and square, to minimize movement, by maximizing the amount of surface area in contact with the table.

It was much darker now.

The night was now moonless.

Even the Prison Moon was no longer visible.

I did not know why it was called the Prison Moon. It had a grayish look at dawn and dusk, almost, interestingly, as though it might be a sphere of metal, and not a natural moon.

Such illusions are interesting.

One could no longer make out the horizon. One would sense it, of course, rather than see it. One knew where its line would be from the platform and ring, rather as one knew a different horizon from the deck, and another from the stem castle.

There was some light on deck, of course.

A lantern was mounted near the helmsman, and another on the stem castle. Given the darkness, the lanterns seemed bright. In daylight, of course, it would be difficult to know if they were lit or not.

Thassa seemed quiet. My watch would be over at the second Ahn.

There were few on deck.

It was now very difficult to make out the slave below.

Given the height of the tables the girls serve while on their feet. Some similarities, of course, obtain. Service is to be deferent, and, for the most part, silent. If a slave speaks, she is expected to speak as a slave, not a free woman. It is, after all, a privilege for a slave to be allowed to speak in the presence of a free man. They are not free women. Free woman may do much what they please. Slaves may not. Commonly the eyes of the slave, she serving in general, as at the long tables, will not meet those of a free man. She will commonly serve head down, and will keep two hands on the goblet or plate until it is placed softly, gently, carefully, deferently, before the free person.

The girl, Alcinoe, and three others, had been assigned to our table.

Today she had dared to place a goblet before me held with one hand. The two-handed grasp is much more aesthetic; it suggests deference; it frames her body, and it brings her wrists together, as though they might be chained. It is prescribed in slave serving. It makes it impractical, too, of course, to hold a dagger, say, behind one’s back. Similarly, the scantiness of common slave garb, though its principal purpose is to display the slave’s beauty, has the additional advantage that it tends to render the concealment of a weapon impractical. Such small customs have, interestingly, historically, foiled a number of assassination attempts, in which a free woman, disguised as a slave, sought to obtain a proximity to, say, a general or Ubar, sufficient to bring a weapon into play. The would-be assassin, perhaps discovering that she must keep both hands on, or, more likely, unwilling to keep both hands on, say, a vessel is reluctant, hesitant, or disconcerted. This noticed, she is examined. Discovered to lack a brand, that omission is soon rectified, and she is sent to a market. Naturally, puzzled, and somewhat irritated, I turned about to regard the slave who had dared to serve improperly, and she had dared to meet my eyes, angrily, and then look haughtily away. I did not understand this behavior. Surely she knew better. Perhaps she was uninformed. Perhaps she was unpopular with the large women, her keepers, in the Kasra area, and they had neglected to enlighten her on the proper protocol, the proper etiquette, of serving? Perhaps they wanted her sent back to them, weeping, hands thronged behind her back, running, a punishment tag wired to her collar. The punishments are up to the keepers, and may be various, ranging from whippings and switchings, to a reduction in rations, to unpleasant ties, of which there are a great number. Slaves are kept well in line, and it is not difficult to do. I chose, unwisely, to ignore this breach of decorum. That is usually a mistake, as it may encourage an animal to take similar, or further, liberties. The leash on a slave, so to speak, is to be tight, and short. She must never be allowed to forget that she is a slave, only a slave. I do not know why I did not act. Perhaps I was puzzled. I did not even understand it. She had not behaved so with the other fellows at the table. Was I somehow special? I did know her as the former Lady Flavia of Ar. But it seems that that might have encouraged not liberties on her part, but a zealous circumspection in such matters, a particular desire to please. Did she think it demeaning, rather than utterly appropriate, that she should be serving men? Did she still think of herself as she had in Ar, a woman of power and station, far superior to, say, a mere guard, a soldier, she still a fine lady who was now, inexplicably and unconscionably, set to menial, shameful tasks, fit only for a slave? In our mess, of some one hundred and sixty men, mostly armsmen, at four long tables, some twenty to a side, sixteen slaves served.

Wedges of Sa-Tarna bread were next distributed, and a half larma to each man, useful in prolonged voyages, a precaution against weakness and bleeding. The bread was placed not at my right hand, but insolently before me, half torn. The larma half was small, dry, and withered; it had been crushed, perhaps yesterday, voiding it of most juice. There was little but rind left. It may have been retrieved from garbage. I did not care for the slave’s games, nor her expressions. I wondered if others, my fellows, or the other slaves, took notice of these tiny things. Perhaps not. Alcinoe, of course, was a ship slave. I did not own her. To be sure, I did have the rights of a free man, and of a member of the ship’s company. Slowly, within me, anger began to seethe, like the boiling mead, honeyed, bubbling, and fermented, sometimes prepared in the north, in the “country of dragons,” the camps and villages above Kassau. Next, the square trenchers were to be filled at the serving table, and brought to us. I saw the slave who, in turn, would have brought my trencher, but Alcinoe thrust herself before her, had the trencher filled, and then approached. Apparently she intended to serve me herself. She moved her hips nicely. Perhaps she had learned something of her collar. I considered her squirming and begging in my arms. It is easy enough to do that with a slave. But her head was up, and her expression was distinctly unpleasant, even disdainful. Did she not know that such an attitude might be a cause for discipline? I supposed not. She struck the trencher down before me, insolently, with a crack, and gruel and strips of roast tarsk spilled upon the table. Men, surprised, looked about. I saw two of the other slaves pale. I gathered then they were not unaware of the sport, or provocations, of the haughty Alcinoe. She turned arrogantly about, but cried out, dragged backward, off balance, half falling, my hand in her hair. I then turned her about, and flung her, hands forward, to the table. I then kicked her legs backward, and she was leaning forward, awkwardly, her hands braced on the table. “Remain as you are,” I said. Two of the other slaves laughed delightedly, amused at the discomfiture of the hitherto arrogant Alcinoe. So, I thought to myself, they well knew what had been going on. “Switch!” I called, and one of the amused slaves darted to a peg on the wall, retrieved the slender, supple implement, and hurried to me, where she knelt, and, head down between her extended arms, lifted the device to me. “What are you going to do,” asked Alcinoe, frightened, uncertainly, and had the presence of mind to add, a moment later, “-Master!” I then switched the back of her thighs, with several stinging strokes, and she began to cry. But she dared not move. I then handed the switch back to the pleased slave who had brought it to me, and she returned it promptly to its peg. “More Sa-Tarna!” called a man, and the girls began, again, with the exception of the chastened Alcinoe, to serve. Conversation resumed about the board. Nothing of importance had occurred. “Kneel down, under the table, at my left knee,” I said to Alcinoe. She obeyed. She could not kneel straightly, given the height of the table. Bent over, she turned her head, and looked up at me. It was hard to read the expression in her eyes. It was something like astonishment, fear, and wonder, and perhaps something else. Paga was brought to me, and more bread, and a good larma, and another trencher, steaming and well-filled. She knelt docilely under the table, at my knee. The back of her thighs must have stung. There were tear stains on her cheeks. I took my time with the meal. I had little to do for another Ahn, when it would be my watch. “May I speak, Master?” she asked. “No,” I told her. Later, I took some Sa-Tarna from the table. “Open your mouth,” I told her. She looked up at me in wonder, and obeyed. I thrust the Sa-Tarna into her mouth. “Feed,” I said. Her mouth must have been dry. It took her some Ehn, partly choking, to down the bread. She had now been fed by hand, by my hand. Commonly this is done only between a master and his slave. She began to tremble. I took a final Paga, and nursed it. When I was finished I took her by the hair and pulled her from beneath the table, and held her, bent over, in common slave-leading position, at my left hip, and left the table. Shortly thereafter, after ascending several companionways, she at my hip, I arrived on the open deck. I put her before the second mast, and tied her hands before her. “You are tying me,” she whispered. I did not punish her for speaking without permission. I did not understand the awe, the gratitude, in her voice. I then lifted her hands up, crossed, and tied them over her head. Then, with several coils of ship’s rope, about her belly, I bound her back against the mast. “You have tied me, Master,” she whispered, squirming a little, helpless. Interestingly, she did not seem distraught, but, if anything, reassured. “Thank you for tying me, Master,” she said. “Master,” she said. “Yes?” I said. “I have always wanted to be tied by you,” she said, “even in Ar. I wanted you, even in Ar, to take me in hand and bind me, to make me helpless.” I glanced up at the foremast. “I must soon to my watch,” I said. I turned away. “Master!” she called. I turned about. “I am helpless, Master,” she said. “Will you not press your lips upon mine?” “Do you beg it?” I asked. She hesitated, and then she said, softly, piteously, “Yes, Master.” She leaned a little forward, closed her eyes, and pursed her lips. When she opened her eyes, I suspect I was already climbing the ratlines, ascending the foremast, to the ring and platform. I heard her cry out, “I hate you! I hate you!” “Do you wish to have a punishment tag wired to your collar?” I called to her. “No, Master!” she cried, frightened. “No, no, Master!” As I climbed further, I stopped, to look back at her. She was thrashing in the ropes. I had seen slaves in such a plight before. A touch can make them scream. The physicians had been right about her, and that had been long ago. She was a slave, ready to be harvested. The fellow whom I was relieving was now muchly beside me, descending the lines. “What is that?” he asked. “A slave,” I said, clinging to the lines beside him. “The weather tonight is likely to be nasty,” he had said. “Excellent,” I had said.

My watch would be over at the second Ahn.

The deck seemed muchly deserted. There would be the helmsman, and a bound slave, the stem-castle watch, and the deck watch, which was by two men, whose names I would soon discover.

There was another spattering of hail.

I heard a creaking, a straining, of the ratlines, to my right.

I doubted it was my relief. It was not yet the first Ahn.

I was unarmed.

“Who is there?” I called.

“Your relief,” I heard.

“Aeacus?” I called.

“No,” said the voice, “Leros.”

The voice was then closer.

Aeacus, of course, was not my anticipated relief. That had been a test on my part. I then realized that whoever was approaching had access, or his informant had access, to the watch order.

“Good,” I said.

But the voice was not that of Leros.

“The sign, the word,” I said, “friend Leros.”

“That is not necessary,” said the voice.

“It is required,” I said. “The tarn is angry.”

“The sleen is pleased,” said the voice, nearer now, in the darkness.

So, I thought, he who approached, or his informant, had not only access to the watch order, but to signs and countersigns, as well. Such are changed daily, sometimes more often. It might seem that such things, on the ship, in its isolation, would be pointless, but it was deemed not so. Since the mutiny the high military authorities on board, Lords Okimoto and Nishida, of the Pani, of whom I took Lord Okimoto to have priority, had increased security considerably. Passwords, and such, of course, are familiar in martial environments, at any time, but particularly at night in the field, in darkness, and so on. They can be used at gates, fords, bridges, and such. Where large numbers of men are involved they are particularly important, as one is not likely to know everyone. Access to storerooms and weapons rooms is often by sign and countersign. Even one well known, even a friend, after all, may not have authorization to enter or pass. It is not unknown for such signals to be used even in single holdings, if large enough; indeed, such holdings are sometimes labyrinthine. We used them, for example, in the Central Cylinder, in Ar, during the occupation.

I sensed a hand might have reached up, to the platform.

“May I ascend?” asked the voice.

It was not the voice of Leros.

“Certainly,” I said.

There is a moment when one climbs to the platform, if it is occupied, in which one is quite vulnerable.

As the voice had spoken clearly, there was no knife clenched between the teeth. The weapon then would have to be retrieved before it could be used, say, from a neck cord, a shoulder sheath, or such.

I could understand trepidation on the part of the climber, but only if he were uncertain of me, or thought me uncertain of him. Leros would never have asked such a question. It would not have occurred to him to do so. The mistake was tiny, but it was enough to assure his death.

By the time the stranger had got his feet under him and was able to stand, the knife would be in his hand.

“Give me your hand,” he said.

In this way I would be well located, well held.

He must have been reaching out, over the platform.

“Take instead,” I said, “my foot.”

“What?” he said.

I, clinging to the ring, with all the force in me, kicked out into the darkness.

I heard bone and face crack beneath my boot, and a weird cry, and heard the body strike the ratlines at least twice, before there was a splash below. At almost the same time I could sense vibrations in the ratlines and I knew there was another climber.

“Who is there?” I called.

There was no answer, which told me what I wanted to know. The knife would be clenched between the teeth.

“Man overboard!” I cried, loudly, down to the stem-castle watch, and then back to the helmsman.

He began to put about.

The more men I could bring to the deck the better.

I did not understand why the deck watch did not immediately sound the alarm bar.

I wrapped my cloak about my left arm.

I sensed the knife slash widely, wildly, almost at my ankles. I stumbled backward. A form lunged under the ring to the surface. I threw myself forward, against it. I felt the blade cut through the cloak, but then it was tangled in it, and I lifted my arm pushing the knife hand to the side, and clasped the wrist, and pressed the form to the side, and we grappled in the darkness. I clung to the knife wrist, with an oarsman’s grasp. A hand tore at my hair, pulling my head back, and then scratched across my face. I put my head down, and seized the body with my right arm, so his hand could not reach me, and thrust the body back, toward the ring, and pinned it against the ring, and pressed it back, and back. I heard the spinal column snap, and thrust the form over the ring, and, a long moment later, heard it strike the deck below. I could not understand why the alarm bar had not rung. I staggered back, panting, against the mast. The mast swung with the rolling of the ship, a surprising swell, perhaps from the helmsman’s work.

Almost at the same instant I sensed something pass my head, like a sudden, fierce whisper in the air.

I instantly threw myself to the platform, within the ring.

No bird so flies, not so swift, not so straight, so piercing the wind.

An instant after something new struck the mast, ringing on a metal brace, and caromed far off, over the side, abeam.

I would later discover a gouge on the brace, rather where my head, a moment before, might have stood.

Why did the alarm bar not ring?

To my relief I saw several men begin to emerge from the hatches, doubtless responsive to the ship’s change of motion. Some carried lamps, others lanterns.

It was then the alarm bar began to ring.

In the light of a lantern, below, some men crowding about, I could see the body on the deck.

I saw Tyrtaios pounding on the alarm bar.

“Ho,” called a voice from below, carrying upward, “noble Callias, do you do well?”

“Yes,” I called down.

“Praise the Priest-Kings,” said the voice.

It was Seremides.

Neither he nor Tyrtaios were armed with a crossbow. Such weapons had been perhaps cast overboard.

It was then I understood that Seremides and Tyrtaios were the deck watch.

“Launch a galley!” I called. “One is overboard!” I pointed ahead, the ship now brought about, to where I thought the first assailant had struck the water.

Within the Ahn, by one of two galleys, lanterns suspended on poles over the water, part of the body had been recovered. As I had heard no cry after the first moment of the descent, I suspected he had been dead when he had entered the water, perhaps from a broken neck. We were not clear, at that time, what had fed on the body.

Tyrtaios, below, charged that I had gratuitously killed my relief, but he was cautioned to silence by Seremides, who perhaps feared an inquiry.

By that time Leros had come to the open deck, and it was clear that neither assailant was my relief.

Below I saw the unmistakable figure of the tarnsman, Tarl Cabot.

Seremides drew away from him.

Lords Okimoto and Nishida appeared on deck.

Leros was sent aloft early, that I might be questioned. I knew neither assailant; they turned out to be two men of Lord Nishida’s retinue, neither of the Pani, Fabius and Telarion. I did not even know them. Later Tarl Cabot spoke to me. “There were five,” he said to me, “whom Lord Nishida suspected, and wished to keep close to him, convinced that one at least was a spy and one, perhaps the same, secretly of the Assassins. Two were slain in the northern forest, on the march to the Alexandra, by name Quintus and Lykourgos, and now two others, Fabius and Telarion, are gone.”

“There is a fifth,” I said.

“Yes,” said Cabot.

“Tyrtaios,” I said. I knew he was of the retinue of Lord Nishida.

“Yes,” said Cabot.

“You think he is a spy, or an Assassin?” I said.

“Quite possibly,” said Cabot.

“Why?” I asked.

“Perhaps I think he would look well in black,” said Cabot.

I did not respond.

“I examined his quarters,” said Cabot. “I discovered a small brush, and a tiny vial of black paint.”

“To paint the dagger,” I said.

“It would seem so,” he said.

“Then,” said I, “he is of the Assassins.”

“It would seem so,” said Cabot.

“You have informed Lord Nishida,” I said.

“Yes,” said Cabot.

“Surely, then, he will dismiss him,” I said.

“I think not,” said Cabot.

“Why not?” I asked.

“That is known only to Lord Nishida,” said Cabot.

“Perhaps he has need of an Assassin?”

“Perhaps,” said Cabot.

“Tyrtaios is interested in taking the ship,” I said.

“He will not move until it is practical,” said Cabot.

“Tyrtaios is dangerous,” I said.

“Yes,” said Cabot.

“He should be done away with,” I said.

“I do not think so,” said Cabot.

“Why not?” I said.

“At our destination,” said Cabot, “we may need every sword.”

At this point, Seremides approached, Tyrtaios at his back.

“I am pleased to see that you do well, noble Callias,” said Seremides. “We had feared you might have been injured. We cannot understand the apparent attack upon you, of which you have informed us.”

“I cannot account for it myself, noble Rutilius,” I said. “I did not know the men.”

“It is perhaps then a mistake of some sort, that they thought you another, an enemy, or such?”

“I think so,” I said, “noble Rutilius.”

“A most tragic misunderstanding,” said Seremides.

“Yes,” I said.

“At least, you are well, unhurt, and safe,” he said. “That is what is most important.”

“My thanks,” I said, “noble Rutilius.”

He, with Tyrtaios, withdrew.

“I knew not,” said Cabot, “the noble Rutilius of Ar was so solicitous of your welfare.”

“His name is not Rutilius,” I said.

“I know,” said the tarnsman.

“There were, I think,” I said, “quarrels, too. One struck a mast brace.”

“I am not surprised,” he said.

“Forgive me,” I said, “but I think I shall look in upon a slave.”

“Certainly,” said the tarnsman.

The slut had not cried out, had not attempted to warn me. So now let her find herself shuddering in abject terror beneath the stern gaze of Callias, Callias before her, a Callias very much alive.

To be sure, I could well understand why the bound slave would not have attempted to warn me of danger, even were she aware of it.

I knew, after all, her former identity.

I turned my attention to the second mast, and approached it, the tarnsman with me.

I expected to find her white with terror, as she must now realize I was still alive. To be sure, it is a rare slave who will meddle in the matters of masters. It is hers, is it not, as an animal, to await the outcome, and learn her disposition? To meddle may be to invite death. Is it not better for a slave to see little and know even less? As it is said, curiosity is not becoming in a kajira.

I was then before the slave.

“Interesting,” said the tarnsman.

The figure which earlier had been barely discernible from the platform and ring, and had been relatively still, for so long, was now struggling. I was much surprised. A lantern was lifted by a fellow. I could no longer detect her long, dark hair, where it had fallen loosely about her white tunic. Her head had been covered, wrapped about or hooded, with some light material, cloth, or canvas. She made tiny, futile noises, scarcely audible a yard or two from the mast. I unknotted the cord holding the sacking over her head, and thrust it up enough to see her mouth, only that. The packing had been thrust deep in her mouth, and bound in place, tightly, behind the back of her neck. I jerked the sacking, which was of canvas, back down, over her head.

She whimpered piteously, beggingly. Even when a woman is gagged, one can easily read such sounds.

“Are you going to leave her like that?” asked the tarnsman.

“She is a slave,” I said.

“Unhood her, ungag her,” said the tarnsman. “She may have seen something.”

I complied, and the girl turned her head aside, and blinked against the lantern. Then, she turned to face me, and lifted her head, her eyes half shut. “Oh, Master!” she breathed.

Her exclamation seemed one of unspeakable relief, of joy, of gratitude. It was almost as though the collar on her neck might not have been a public collar, say, that of the ship of Tersites, but, rather, a private collar, say, that of Callias of Jad.

I did not understand this.

The tarnsman seized her chin in his right hand, and lifted and turned it, so that she must look upon him. I gather the grip was painful.

“Speak,” he snarled. “What occurred here? Who was about? How did it happen? Speak, female, speak, woman!”

I was startled that he has spoken to her in terms of her sex, simply, regardless of her condition, that she was so obviously bond. It was clearly the voice of one of the master sex addressing one of the slave sex, bluntly, directly, intending to be told the truth. I suspected, this unsettling me, he would have spoken identically even were she free. It seemed incomprehensible to me, of course, that a free woman, for example, might be so addressed. But what was a free woman but a slave without a master? How stood the conventions of society, the habits, rules, customs, and such, against the biological facts of an uncontaminated nature? Surely he spoke to her in a way that went far beyond the trivia of tunics and collars, brands and chains. What do they do, such things, the collar, bracelets, and such, other than confirm her womanhood upon a female? To be sure, slaves, as free woman are not, are well advised to answer quickly and truthfully any queries of a free man. There are many ways to encourage speech in a reluctant slave. Indeed, as you know, in a court of law, the testimony of slaves is commonly taken under torture.

I saw that she was terrified of the tarnsman.

“Speak,” I said to her, “kajira.”

She cast me a grateful glance, grateful that I understood her helplessness, and terror, and that she was only a slave.

I was therein pleased, for it betokened to me that she before me now well understood her condition, that she was truly a slave, and only a slave.

This is a moment of truth, of understanding and insight, of submission, which few women in a collar ever forget.

“I saw nothing! I know nothing, Master!” she said. “It was dark. My head was down, my eyes were closed. They approached silently. I was suddenly started. I heard a tiny noise. My head was yanked up, by the hair. It hurt so! I saw two men! One from each side! Masked! I opened my mouth to scream, and a fistful of wadding was thrust into it, and I could scarcely whimper. This was secured in place, and something was pulled over my head, like a sack, and I could not see, and I felt a cord knotted at my throat, this securing the covering in place. I struggled. I was frantic. I was helpless. I could see nothing. I could not speak. I did not know what was transpiring. I know nothing, nothing, Masters! That is the truth, Masters! Be merciful to a slave! She is collared, she dares not lie, Masters!”

I looked to the tarnsman. “It is possible,” I said to the tarnsman, “that the slut knows nothing.”

“‘Slut’, Master?” asked the slave.

“Yes,” I said.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“It is possible,” said the tarnsman, “and likely. It is likely that these men would wish no witnesses to their act, even if the act were such that it might be condoned, or even hoped for, by the slave.”

“Oh, no, Master!” said the slave.

“Blackmail, amongst confederates, or conspirators,” said the tarnsman, “is always a possibility. Thus the fewer that witness a deed the better. That the slave was not slain may indicate that they find her of interest, presumably slave interest. That is understandable. She is not a poor piece of meat. I think she might sell well.”

The slave looked at him, startled, gratefully. Once she had regarded herself as too beautiful to be a slave; then she had come to realize that her beauty, while not negligible, was far exceeded by many slaves. This can be a very sobering experience for a woman, even one of great attractiveness, finding that her beauty, perhaps quite extraordinary for a free woman, may be quite average for a slave. For the first time she finds herself placed amongst, and ranked amongst, women of great interest to men, women even selected with this in mind. In so chastening a situation the female’s original complacency and arrogance is likely to be replaced by a hope that men, or some men, might find her at least similarly pleasing. Certainly she will try to be so. It might also be recalled that the slave had become even more beautiful after her collaring. This commonly occurs, and, doubtless, a number of reasons are involved, ranging from the physiological to the psychological, from the physical to the emotional.

“That it was done easily and efficiently,” said the tarnsman, “her neutralization, her removal from the game, from the board, so to speak, the straightforward gagging and hooding, suggests that they are proficient in such things, are perhaps slavers or raiders, or others, accustomed to the acquisition and management of women. This gives us some information. Also, that there were clearly two men involved is worth noting.”

I nodded.

“Do you know more, slave?” asked the tarnsman.

“No, Master,” she said.

“She is perhaps lying,” I said.

“No, no, Master!” said the slave.

“It is strange, is it not,” I said, “that the deck watch failed to note such intruders, and that the alarm bar did not ring until men were pouring onto the deck?”

“Do you think it strange?” asked the tarnsman.

I considered the deck watch.

“No,” I said.

“Nor I,” said he.

I undid the ropes which held the small wrists of the slave above her head, and then freed her of the belly ropes.

The hail had stopped, but the air was still moist.

Leros had now been on the platform and ring for several Ehn. He had had his cloak bundled on his back.

When freed, the slave, not dismissed, and in the presence of free men, went to her knees.

Her head was down.

This was appropriate.

Many are the beautiful symbolisms between masters and slaves.

How natural are such things.

And how perfectly they reflect categorical relationships, and absolute realities.

“Your tunic is soaked,” I said, “and your hair is bedraggled.”

“A slave fears she is not pleasing to masters,” she said.

“You are suitable on your knees, with your head down,” I said.

“May I lower it further, Master?” she asked.

“I do not understand,” I said.

I felt her lips on my boots.

“I am sorry if I displeased Master,” she said.

I was silent.

She, this woman, was at my feet. I recalled her from Ar. She, this slave, was at my feet. I recalled her from Ar.

“Thank you for punishing me, Master,” she said.

“It is nothing,” I said.

“It is late,” said Tarl Cabot. “She is to be returned to the Kasra area, is she not?”

“Yes,” I said.

“She was displeasing,” said the tarnsman.

“Yes,” I said.

“Shall I have a punishment tag brought,” asked the tarnsman, “and a thong?”

The punishment tag, as noted earlier, would be wired to the slave’s collar, her hands would be tied behind her back, and she must hurry to her keeping area, where discipline would be meted out by her keepers, the large women.

“What do you think, slave?” I asked her.

I recalled her former terror that this might be done to her. I gathered it was very unpleasant for a lovely slave, a slave such as she, well-curved and delicious, a man-pleasing slave, the sort that men wish to buy, the sort that men wish to own, the sort that men find attractive, and care for, an exquisite, feminine slave, to find herself at the mercy of the ill-tempered, hating, envious, jealous, unhappy, gross brutes likely to be found in charge of a keeping area.

“It will be done with me as masters please,” whispered the slave, head down, at my feet.

“It will be done with you as masters please,” I assured her, “have no fear, slave, but what would you like?”

“That it may be done with me as masters please,” she said.

This answer pleased me.

“You have come far in bondage,” I said.

“It is my hope to please my masters,” she said.

“You have been punished enough,” I said. “You may go.”

“Keep me,” she said. “I beg to please you!”

“Please me?” I said.

“Yes!” she said.

“How?” I asked. “In what way?”

“As a slave,” she said. “As the slave I am!”

“Do you know what you are saying?” I asked.

“Oh, yes, Master!”

“Speak,” I said.

“I beg attention,” she said.

“Attention?” I said. After all, why make things easy for a slave, particularly such a slave.

“You would make me speak, of these things, I, knowing who I once was?”

“Of course,” I said.

“Seize me, take me!” she wept, lifting her face to mine. “Put me to use! I beg it! Employ me as a means to your pleasure, a mere means! I ask nothing else, or further! I am collared! Behold me! I am a needful slave! Be kind! I beg! Put me to your pleasure! What am I for if not to please you? Put me to your pleasure, Master! Use me! I beg it!”

“And it was so,” I asked, “even from Ar?”

“Yes, Master,” she wept, putting her head down. “Even from Ar!”

I found this answer of interest.

“The deck is hard, cold, and wet,” said the tarnsman. “There is a large coil of rope nearby.”

The lantern was lifted a little higher, better illuminating what knelt at my feet, head down.

She did not now dare, her confession uttered, to raise her face to mine.

“Your use has not been given to me, slave girl,” I said.

“But you have tied me,” she said.

“As might any man,” I said.

She put her hands on my legs and looked up at me. I saw in the light of the lantern that her face was streaked with tears.

“Might not a slave find favor with Master?” she asked.

“Go,” I said.

“Master!” she begged.

“Must a command be repeated?” I inquired.

“No, Master,” she said, quickly. She then pressed her lips again, fervently, to my boots, and then rose to her feet, backed away, head down, and then turned and ran, weeping, from the lantern light, disappearing in the darkness.

“You well know how to handle a slave,” said the tarnsman.

I did not respond.

“The slut was quite ready,” said the tarnsman.

It is interesting to see how helpless slaves can be, like a blanket of heat and need. Much, I supposed had to do with the collar, with slavery itself.

Odd, I thought, how bondage can free them.

It is no wonder men put them in collars.

They belong in a collar. They want them. In the precincts of the collar they find themselves, fulfill themselves, and are whole.

“Her use is not mine,” I said.

I looked at the large coil of rope to the side.

“To be sure,” said the tarnsman, “it is scarcely the furs of love, spread on the floor at the foot of a master’s couch.”

As is well known, it is a mark of great favor for a slave to be permitted on the couch of a master.

If I owned the lovely Alcinoe, I doubted she would soon be there. Such a mark of favor is not easily purchased.

“She is a ship slave,” I said. “I do not own her.”

“It would be dangerous, as well,” he said, “for he who calls himself Rutilius of Ar finds her of interest.”

I had gathered that from long ago.

“I wonder what is his interest in her,” said the tarnsman.

“She is not without slave interest,” I said.

“She has grown in beauty,” said the tarnsman.

“That is common in the collar,” I said.

“True,” he said.

“It seems she has become a helplessly hot little slut,” he said.

“That, too, is common in the collar,” I said.

“True,” he said.

“If she were a free woman,” said the tarnsman, “I suspect she would purchase a collar, and kneel before you, begging you to make her your slave.”

I was silent.

Few free women can so conquer their pride. Slaves, on the other hand, are not permitted pride.

That is one of the attractions of a slave.

Free women often fear to be in a man’s arms, fearing what will become of them. Perhaps few understand the meaning of their restlessness, their irritations, their distractions, their turnings and thrashings in the night, or perhaps, somehow, they understand them only too well.

Many pillows have been dampened with the tears of free women.

Do they know the source of their tears?

Perhaps.

Many are the cultural expectations imposed upon the free woman. Is she not more of a slave than a slave? Abundant are her limitations; narrow are the corridors permitted for her movements; stout are the bonds of convention wherein she is bound. Can she fail to sense the invisible ties which bind her? How natural, then, imbued by unquestioned prescription and expectation, for her to justify the walls within which she is imprisoned. How natural then her pride, her aloofness, her struggle to maintain the pretenses demanded of her. What is her will compared to the weight of society? Too, is it not easy to make a virtue of necessity, that ice should commend cold, and the stone its lack of feeling? How natural then that she should, with all innocence and conviction, often with a raging earnestness, praise the treachery which has been done to her, and struggle to betray herself, to deny herself to herself. How natural then that she should compete with her sisters in her imperviousness to desire, in her frigidity and inertness, in her estrangement from herself. How glorious is the free woman! She possesses a Home Stone, as a slave may not. But she is a woman, still, and that, however denied, is adamant. It continues to exist. Its hereditary coils reign in each living particle of her body. Truth, primitive and antique, remains true. Her nature is with her, for it is herself. Does she suspect at times that there is a slave masquerading within her robes? Does she not, at times, hear the whimpers, the cries, of the slave within her? Does she not long, at times, for the collar of a master, for the weight of his chains? Does she not know in her heart that she is his rightful slave?

“You did not call for the punishment tag,” said the tarnsman, “or the thong.”

“No,” I said.

I did not care for the large women. I thought discipline, if required, was best administered to a slave by a male. That is the natural way, and is far more meaningful to the slave. She is, after all, his. And he is, after all, her master.

Too, I thought the slave had been sufficiently punished.

I glanced upward to the platform and ring, on the foremast, where Leros now stood his watch. The light of the lantern carried only partway on the mast. I shuddered.

“I would be armed,” I said.

“You are not an officer,” he said, “and not all officers are armed.”

“I would be armed,” I said.

“Then so, too,” said he, “would a thousand others.”

“The platform and ring,” I said, “is muchly open. It is an insecure, fragile fortress.”

“Less insecure, less fragile, I fear,” said he, “than a hundred others, remote passageways, darkened corners, blind turnings.”

“Had I used the slave, and Rutilius heard of it,” I said, “he might have sought me out, openly, in rage.”

“Quite possibly,” said the tarnsman.

“And you would have been near?” I said.

“Possibly,” he said.

“I am bait?” I asked.

“Possibly,” he said.

“His name,” I said, “is not Rutilius. He is Seremides, former master of the Taurentians.”

“I know,” said the tarnsman. “I know him from Ar.”

“What is the bad blood between you?” I asked.

“It is not important,” he said. “It has to do with a woman.”

“What woman?” I asked.

“Talena, Talena of Ar,” he said.

“The Ubara!” I exclaimed.

“Once,” he said.

“Why is he here, on the ship?” I asked.

“I gather he thinks I know her whereabouts,” said the tarnsman, “that he might somehow find her through me.”

“For the bounty?” I said.

“Of course,” said the tarnsman. “And an amnesty for himself, for bringing her to Ar.”

“There would be riches and freedom for him,” I said, “and great jubilation in Ar, when she was publicly impaled.”

“It would be holiday,” he said.

“Do you know where she is?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “But I suspect Seremides does not believe me. I am, in a way, much pleased that he is on the ship, as here I may kill him, and, at the least, he will be unable to pursue and capture Talena, for the bounty.”

“You know the Ubara?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“You could recognize her?”

“Yes.”

“Doubtless,” I said, “you would like to capture her and bring her shackled to the justice of Ar.”

The reward for her return to Ar was considerable, amounting to a dozen wealths, which might purchase a city or hire a hundred free companies.

“No,” he said, “I would have other plans for Talena.”

I shuddered at the tone of his voice.

I myself could recognize the Ubara, of course, but I did not think it judicious to bring this to the attention of the tarnsman.

“Where might be Talena?” I wondered.

“I do not know,” said the tarnsman.

“We have been long at sea,” I said. “By now any of a thousand hunters might have apprehended the Ubara. She may have perished naked and screaming months ago in Ar.”

“I think not,” said the tarnsman.

“Why do you think not?” I asked.

“It is late,” he said.

“I wish you well,” I said.

“Beware of Seremides,” said the tarnsman.

“I shall,” I said. “I wish you well.”

We turned about, to leave the open deck.

I doubted that I was the less in danger from Seremides, for having forgone the use of a slave. It might have been pleasant to fling her upon the coil of rope, head down, and thrust up her tunic, but one must concern oneself with discipline, and the ship. Too, her use was not mine.

Such things concern some men.

Not every man will untether another’s kaiila.

We had scarcely moved toward the port companionway leading under the stem castle when our progress was suddenly arrested by a cry from the height of the foremast.

“Ho!” cried Leros from above. “Ho! A light, a light! Ahead, ahead, a light!”

The bar sounded, struck twice.

Cabot and I hurried, followed by his lantern bearer, along the narrow port passageway about the stem castle, and stood at the bow. We heard others climb the steps to the stem-castle deck. We heard others hurrying about the starboard passageway about the stem castle, and were soon joined at the bow.

“Ahead, dead ahead!” called Leros, from above, his voice seemingly far away.

“There!” said Cabot, pointing.

Twice more the bar rang.

We could see the light now, even from the deck level.

“It is a ship!” cried a man.

“No!” said Lord Nishida, suddenly beside us. “It is too soon, too soon!”

At the same time, with a shift of the moist wind, a heavy, sweet odor emerged from the darkness.

“Turn about! Turn about!” cried Lord Nishida.

By now, given the ringing of the bar, one supposed that Aetius, and perhaps even Tersites, and the major officers quartered astern, closest to the helmsman, had come to the command deck, the stern-castle deck, whence orders might be most conveniently and immediately conveyed to the helmdeck, some feet below.

Lord Nishida turned about and began to hurry aft. Cabot and I, and the lantern bearer, followed him. We pressed our way through excited and curious men, in their crowds, come from below decks, rushed forward.

Save for the lanterns rushing about the deck, it was dark.

The odor became more pervasive.

I heard something brush the side of the hull.

In a few Ehn Lord Nishida was at the foot of the helm deck. There were dark figures on the stern-castle.

“Put about!” cried Lord Nishida to the stern-castle deck. “Put about! Put about!”

From the darkness above came the shrill voice of Tersites. “Forward!” it cried. “Forward!”

“Fools! Fools!” cried Lord Nishida.

He clambered to the helm deck and began to fight the helmsman for the helm.

Two mariners pulled him from the helm.

“Forward!” cried Tersites.

The wind turned, and was fair, swelling the mighty sails, and the great ship, like an unleashed sleen, leaped forward.

It was an Ahn later that the sails fell slack, and the ship ceased to move.

Once again the heavy, sweet odor was pervasive.

One could now, in the light of the dawn, see the color about, yellow and purple, the myriads of blossoms, many a foot in width, opening to the morning sun.

I now heard the voice of Aetius, above, frantic with concern.

“Put about! Put about!” he called to the helmsman.

“No!” screamed Tersites.

“We must put about, dear master!” cried Aetius.

“Never!” said Tersites.

“Take him below!” cried Aetius.

A mariner took the shipwright by the arm, and conducted him, that small, misshapen figure, protesting, struggling, from the stern-castle deck.

“Put about!” called Aetius, to the helmsman.

“I cannot!” he said. “I cannot!”