Mariners of Gor

Chapter Twenty-Four

The stone-set walls were high, on both sides of the steep, winding, cobbled trail, some ten feet in width, better than a pasang in length, leading tortuously upward to the castle of Lord Temmu.

Ashore the men were armed.

Some Pani folk, shuffling, heads down, ill-clad, had threaded their way past us to where lay the wharf, against which, last night, we had moored the great ship. These new Pani, so different from the aloof, proud warriors with which we had become familiar, seemed scarcely to exist. At the wharf, under the direction of higher Pani, in trip after trip, they would gather burdens, hundreds of bundles, bails, and boxes. These were lowered in nets, swung out by booms, to the wharf. These, shouldered, or hung on poles, or sometimes on yokes, they began to transport up the trail. The only paraphernalia we were allowed to carry were weapons and accouterments. The lower Pani, so to speak, were discouraged from touching such things. I had earlier shouldered a box, but one of the ship’s Pani warned me to leave that for others. I gathered we were armsmen, and not the bearers of burdens. Perhaps Lord Temmu wished it to be clear that warriors had landed, and not porters. The Pani world was one of complex arrangements and degrees, and many proprieties, and formalities, at least to me, were mysterious. Whereas all natural societies are characterized by rank, distance, and hierarchy, acknowledged or not, I think there is no Gorean caste, from the highest to the lowest, which does not regard itself as the equal or superior, in one way or another, to that of every other. Where would society be without the Builders, the Merchants, the Metal Workers, the Cloth Workers, the Wood Workers, the Leather Workers, the Peasant, with the great bow, the ox on whom the Home Stone rests?

The trail upward was steep.

I was with the second contingent landed, some two hundred men, making its way down the ropes and rail nets.

Tarl Cabot, commander of the tarn cavalry, and his men, were not with us. Last night, under the cover of darkness, the tarns had been flown, to some undisclosed location.

We had seen no sign of the fleet of Lord Yamada.

I regarded the great ship.

Tersites had insisted, in the cove, that it come about, so that its bow might point toward the sea. This seemed to have met with general approval, certainly amongst the men. Treasure in hand, from the Vine Sea, what more was to be gained on a dangerous shore, at the World’s End?

The orientation of the great ship, bow to sea, would allow it, should the fleet of Lord Yamada be sighted, to slip its moorings and escape the cove, to the security of the open sea. The orientation also, of course, would facilitate an expeditious departure at any time, independent of some emergency, perhaps one conducted at night, in haste, by stealth.

Did not the great ship, in its way, seductive and beckoning, constitute a temptation?

I lingered on the wharf, past the fourth and fifth contingents.

Interestingly, nothing was permitted to leave the ship through the galley nests, which, if opened, might have provided a convenient access to the wharf. The nests remained closed, almost invisible in the hull, and, I had little doubt, were fastened shut, and guarded, from the inside, by Pani. Opened, they would provide a breach into the ship, quickly and easily exploited. Aside from Tersites and Aetius, who refused to come ashore, some officers, and a handful of mariners, only Pani were allowed on board, and their role, one supposed, was to prevent a general return to the ship, if not now, later.

I feared for the ship.

And, I suspect, I was not the only one. I saw Tersites at the high starboard rail, that of the stem castle, looking over the side. Then he had turned back, and I could see him no longer.

I feared for the ship.

Had it not served its purpose? Had it not traversed Thassa? Had it not vindicated the madness, the bizarre faith, the superstition and conviction, of its malformed master, half-blind Tersites, a jest amongst the islands, a joke in a hundred ports, who had sent it eyeless upon the open sea? I had long thought this omission, that he would not give the ship eyes, to the uneasiness of many, was cast down as a challenge to Thassa, that it was in its way a defiance, a boast that so mighty a structure had nothing to fear from mother Thassa, from whose womb the land was born, from her moods, her violence, her turbulence, and wind. But now it struck me, and eerily, that this seemingly fearful omission, the denial of eyes, was not so much a bold repudiation of common marine practice and lore as a concession to it deeper than was easily understood. She had been denied eyes that she might not understand how daunting were the long sea roads stretched before her, the perils into which she would be introduced. So, too, might a kaiila be hooded before being raced through the flames of a burning forest, in which arrested, it and its rider would perish.

I saw Tyrtaios stride by.

He was muchly independent now, as Lords Okimoto and Nishida were elsewhere, I supposed in attendance on the shogun, Lord Temmu.

“Tal, noble Callias,” said he to me.

“Tal, noble Tyrtaios,” I said.

He was followed by some eleven or twelve men. I did not know them. They hailed from more than one deck. This made me apprehensive. Tyrtaios, I suspected, was of the Assassins.

I looked up from the wharf toward the castle.

It would be a long, unpleasant climb.

The walls of the narrow trail, I had supposed, were to protect the passage from the castle to the water.

Certainly they would deter small groups, at least, from harrying, if not closing off, that passage, from impeding, if not cutting, the connection between the castle and the sea. On the other hand, such walls, serving to keep some out, serve as well to keep others within.

The most interesting cargo I noted being disembarked from the great ship, a cargo handled with great gentleness, and one not surrendered to the lower Pani, but to warriors, were the eggs of tarns. Each was given to a single warrior, who bowed to the egg courteously, wrapped it in silk, and then began to mount the trail to the castle. I would later learn there had been a much larger number of eggs, but many had perished on the vessel, and been cast overboard. Several had apparently been stolen or destroyed in the mutiny. Some had been broken into, for food. The Pani had slain more than one man for such acts.

A large cage, containing an enormous sleen, snarling and obviously discomfited, was slung over the rail, and lowered toward the wharf. It took eight of the lower Pani to manage the cage up the ascent to the castle. Whereas I had heard this animal from time to time, this was only the second time I had seen it. The first time it had been on deck, in the company of Tarl Cabot. As it moved, twisting angrily about in the cage, its left, hind paw dragged on the cage floor. Any sleen is a dangerous beast. Why would one keep one which was crippled? Slowed, less able to hunt, perhaps in pain, might it not be even more dangerous?

The slaves had been disembarked after the third contingent. They were put in left-wrist coffle, and, ten at a time, were lowered in nets. Once on the wharf, the first girl of one ten was fastened to the last girl of the preceding ten, and so on, until there was a single line of slaves, some two hundred, all joined by the left wrist. Interestingly, they were permitted clothing. Usually kajirae, weather permitting, are marched naked in their coffles. This is healthy, allowing the air to refresh their bodies. It also makes it easier to wash the stock, sponging it down, immersing it in local streams, ponds, and such. Too, it saves on garmenture, which might be soiled in a long march, perhaps in dust, or mud. Too, of course, when a woman is chained naked, it is difficult for her to forget she is a slave. The clothing permitted to the slaves, considering their status as livestock, was rather ample, as the tunics, their single garment, extended to the center of the calf, as opposed to being high on the thigh, and often cut at the hip. Further, the tunics were rather coarse, and opaque. They were sleeveless, of course, and their simplicity left no doubt that they were slave garments. As is common the slaves were barefoot. The generosity of the tunics, and their conservatism, had possibly to do with the introduction of such lovely beasts into a new environment, which they might find unfamiliar, and which might find them unfamiliar. Once such beasts would become familiar, and one could better assess how they might be received, with respect to the local populace, one could always display them, relate to them, and do with them as seemed appropriate. For example, they should not, at least initially, be so desirable, and exciting, that Pani free women might kill them. The Pani free women must come to understand that they are no threat to them, no threat to their beauty, prestige, station, and power, but only animals, and slaves, work beasts and toys for their men.

Having reached the wharf in the second contingent, disembarked, I, and some others, of both the first and third contingents, had waited about. It is pleasant to see the marshaling, chaining, and marching of beautiful slaves. Such helpless, lovely creatures, whom one might visualize on the block, whom one might buy, own, train, and master, fill the hearts of men with zest and unrestrained joy. To be sure, these were, on the whole, the livestock of the Pani, to be dealt with as they might please. Some of the fellows, of course, may have been waiting on friends. And others, one supposes, were not eager to essay a narrow, closed, walled-in path, which was clearly steep and long, and at the end of which lay a beautiful, but strange and mysterious structure, which might forebode we knew not what. But most, I think, were waiting to see the slaves. How marvelous that one might own such creatures, as one might own a verr or tarsk.

The slaves, being aligned on the wharf, each ten being fastened to the next ten, looked fearfully up the heights, at the rearing, surmounting castle far above. We were all apprehensive, at having come to the World’s End, of course. But they were slaves, vulnerable, and utterly helpless. They were frightened belongings, soon to be fastened together. We were men; we were armed.

One of the girls was sobbing, her body shuddering. Perhaps she was frightened, apart from the security of her mat and chain.

Then the shackle was closed on her left wrist.

I had a special interest in these matters, other than the usual pleasures associated with the inspection and surveying of slaves. I wished to make sure that a particular slave, Alcinoe, was present, that she had not been kept on the ship. She was, after all, of some value. There was a bounty on her.

Accordingly, I had been pleased when I had detected her in the net, being lowered to the wharf with other girls, and had noted that she, the last of her ten, would be attached to the first of the next ten.

She was special to me.

I liked to keep my eye on her.

There was, after all, a bounty on her.

It was well that the slaves had been landed.

Some men, I fear, suspected that the great ship might depart the cove, with the treasure aboard, and the slaves, leaving the contingents then in a strange, hostile land. Thus they were reassured, at least to some extent, that the girls had been brought to shore.

Whereas the landing of the slaves might have been welcomed by the men, and might have well served the Pani by allaying some currents of suspicion amongst the men, it seems clear that, from the Pani point of view, the disembarkation of the slaves was no more than a disembarkation of cargo, no different from other forms of cargo.

That Alcinoe had not been kept on board, despite her value in Ar, pleased me. It suggested that this value might be unrecognized or, more likely, given the interest Seremides had expressed in her, that it was immaterial to the Pani who were seemingly in no need of economic resources, or, at least, of such a kind. She had been purchased in Brundisium as no more than another slave. Too, of what value is a coin which cannot be spent?

In any event, I was ashore, and much pleased that the slave, Alcinoe, was also ashore, and, obviously, for the time, at least, would be easy to keep track of.

Her left wrist was held, while the shackle was snapped about it.

She had been the lofty Lady Flavia of Ar, confidante of the Ubara herself. Now, no more than five yards from me, now almost indistinguishable amongst other goods, she was no more than a tunicked, barefoot, wrist-shackled slave at the World’s End.

This pleased me.

Might it not be nice to caress her, until her body reddened and throbbed and her hips and haunches shook and she begged to serve my pleasure?

I thought of her squirming, begging, in my arms, helpless in the spasmodic, uncontrollable throes of a slave.

It might be pleasant.

Then I recalled that I had no interest in her, unless it be to return her to Ar. Still, there is more to life than gold, a girl, say, a slave at one’s feet, in chains.

The last ten was attached to the coffle.

A cry rang out, and a whip snapped.

The first step is taken with the left foot.

They were instructed to walk as slaves, with their heads down, not looking to right or left, and, of course, keeping silent.

Women love to speak, and they do it articulately, and beautifully. It is a joy to hear them. It is a lovely part of their life.

Muchly then does it impress their bondage on them that this delight may not be exercised without the explicit, or implicit, permission of a free person. What a difference between the unquestioned prerogatives of the free woman who may speak if and when, and as, she pleases, and the helplessness of the slave who may be silenced with a word or gesture, and may not speak without permission.

Surely the nature of a woman much changes, once the collar has been snapped about her neck.

Men were about the wharf and the slaves’ coffle must proceed between them. And, as is common, many were the remarks, comments, whistles, observations, sounds, and such, to which the shackled kajirae were exposed.

Such a coffle, in such a situation, such a display of goods, is sometimes referred to as a collar banquet, as though its contents might be something which men might seize and on which they might feast.

The coffle, interestingly, was accompanied by Pani youth, of the lesser sort, with switches. As I understand it, something similar is often done amongst the Red Savages of the Barrens, namely, that adult white females are placed in the charge of boys. In this way, controlled and herded as the animals they are, they are taught that they are inferior even to the children of their masters.

When Alcinoe passed me, I whispered to her, “Heat your thighs, slut,” and she jerked at the chain, frightened, but kept her head down, and whispered, “Yes, my Master.” That had surely been a mistake. She had been terribly startled. She had not thought. For such a mistake, a girl might be switched. I was not her master. She was a ship slave. I watched her proceed toward the end of the wharf, the walled-in trail. Normally, of course, that expression, ‘my Master’, is used only to one’s actual master, the one to whom one belongs.

Almost all the slaves, of course, wore ship collars, as did Alcinoe, but some had lighter, lovelier collars, more common on the continent, and islands, but as securely locked, and as unslippable. I saw Pertinax’s Jane and Cabot’s Cecily. They had not been taken with the tarn cavalry, to whatever might have been its destination. Both seemed apprehensive. They were now with common slaves, public slaves, so to speak. Both were delicious sluts, with sweet love cradles. They were perhaps being confiscated. At the World’s End, who could gainsay the Pani? The tarn cavalry had been brought, largely intact, to the holding of Lord Temmu. I wondered if Tarl Cabot, Pertinax, and some others, might not now be expendable. Surely they were not Pani. Did Pani now need them? Would Pani trust them? Slaves, of course, are in little danger. They are not likely to be slain, no more than other animals. They may, of course, as other animals, easily change masters.

The hatred and contempt of the free woman for the meaningless, despicable slave, so far beneath her, is well known. On the other hand, when a city falls, when walls crumble in flame, and the streets run with blood, the free woman, unlike the slave, has much to fear. Their freedom, commonly so estimable, is now likely to earn them the bloody blade, their heads as readily posted on pikes as those of others. There is none to defend them, none to save them. Where shall they hide, within the encirclements, away from the room-to-room searches, away from the snuffling sleen, searching for a scent? It is not unknown for them to tear away their clothes and prostrate themselves before mocking victors, covering their feet with kisses, and begging to be spared. “Are you a slave?” they might be asked. “Yes, Master!” they sob. “Whose slave?” “Your slave, Master!” Sometimes their own serving slaves, who have often been much abused, as is commonly the practice of the scornful free woman, set upon their former mistress, strip, and bind her, and lead her, leashed, to slave-gathering points, at a wall, or at major cross streets, throwing her to the feet of conquerors, that her thigh may be seared as theirs, and a collar put upon her. “I am a free woman!” might cry the shamed, affronted captive. “How dare you bring me a free woman?” might the slaves be asked. The free woman is then thrown to her belly, and a sword is put at the back of her neck, and the arm is then raised. Surely it is an honorable death. “Please spare me, Master!” cries the free woman. “Master?” “Yes, Master! Master!” The woman is rudely turned, so that she is supine. The eyes of men rove her. She trembles. Might she please a master? Would she do, as a slave, even minimally? “Take her away,” says one of the men, “mark her, collar her. Perhaps she will do as a pot girl.” The slaves laugh, as their former mistress is dragged to the side. In addressing the word ‘Master’ to a man, did she not confess herself slave? Her masquerade of freedom is then at an end. Many free women, it is said, and perhaps all, as is hinted, are merely slaves who have dared to conceal themselves for a time in the habiliments of the free. Better then, at last, that they will know the cage, the chain, the rope, the whip.

I saw the blond slave, Saru, pass.

I saw her, more than once, lift her head, slightly, and, with agonized eyes, whispering, interrogate some fellow to the side.

When she came to my vicinity, the chain had halted briefly, for some girls, ahead, had fallen, trying to ascend the steepness of the trail. It was not an easy climb. She whispered to me, plaintively. “Noble Master, where is Master Pertinax? Do you know him? Is he about? Tell him of me, please tell him of the slave, Saru!”

“Be silent,” I told the slave. Surely she knew she was not to speak in coffle. I was entitled to strike her, but I did not. Any free person is entitled to administer discipline to an errant slave. It is, so to speak, a favor to the master. To be sure, I had no idea where Pertinax might be, save that I supposed him with the tarn cavalry, wherever that might be. Might not the slave have supposed as much? But perhaps not. Slaves are commonly kept in much ignorance. Would you, for example, spend time imparting information to kaiila, tarsks, and such?

Too, what was her interest, that of a slave, in the whereabouts of a free man? What might Pertinax be to her or she to him?

A bit later I gathered that her indiscretion had caught up with her, for I heard her cry out, in misery, several yards ahead, almost at the end of the wharf, near the beginning of the trail. One of the Pani youth had come up behind her, probably unnoticed, caught her speaking, and struck her, several times, swiftly, about the left arm and neck. She had her head down then. She looked neither to the right nor left. And I supposed she would now be silent, appropriately so, perfectly so, forbidden speech. And she might hope that she had not been noted in such a way that she might be whipped at the journey’s end.

What might Pertinax be to her, or she to him?

I should mention one thing which I found of great interest, in the matter of the coffle. It may be recalled that amongst the slaves of the Venna keeping area, supposedly the area of higher slaves, there had been a certain number of slaves which, when brought to the open deck, had been invariably hooded. I had supposed, originally, as I saw no hooded slaves disembarked from the ship that those slaves were retained on board. On the other hand, I had heard a fellow remark, as one of the large cargo nets swung out from the rail again and once more began its descent to the wharf, “That is the last ten, the last of the slaves.” “Surely not,” I said. “How many are there?” he asked. “Two hundred, some two hundred,” I said. “Well,” said he, “when that ten is added, there will be twenty tens.” “It cannot be all,” I said. “There were hooded slaves.” “I know fellows in the kitchen,” he said. “They tell me two hundred, give or take two or three.” “Where are the hooded slaves?” I asked. “Perhaps they have been cast overboard,” said a fellow. There was laughter at this, so merry a jest, a form of humor likely to be less amusing to slaves than others. To be sure, who would jettison such lovely cargo, goods so pleasant to behold, and hold? “Mixed in,” said another. “Yes,” I said. “Mixed in!” “I do not see any who seem all that different from others,” said a fellow. “No,” said another. “Why were they hooded, anyway?” asked another fellow, scrutinizing the passing coffle. “Pani are strange,” said a man. “It was a Pani madness.”

I suddenly understood, or thought I understood, the rationale for the hooding. It was truly important to hood one slave only, the former Talena, of Ar. I had recognized her, to my astonishment, in the private area within the Venna keeping area. To hood several was merely to suggest that any particular one was not of paramount importance. A single hooded slave might have provoked a great deal of speculation. The nonsense of extraordinary beauty, though the slaves were clearly high-quality merchandise, was to conceal the identity of one slave, Talena, of Ar. If it was understood that she was on board, considering the bounty on her in Ar, the men might have become unmanageable, and insisted on putting about, and returning to the mainland. Pani, and some others, might have resisted, and the enterprise of the great ship, whatever it might be, would doubtless have come to an end. And the Pani, of course, would brook no temporary return to the mainland, no delay in their venture to the World’s End. The outcome of the war might be soon decided, had perhaps already been decided. That Talena’s presence on board might have been disruptive was clear, and that the concealment of her presence was prudent was also clear. What was not clear was why the Pani would have her on board, at all. I assume, given the precautions exercised, and such, that they were well aware of her political and economic importance. There must then be some additional reason for her presence, perhaps in the camps in the northern forests, of which I had heard, on the ship, and here, at the World’s End. Indeed, why would she have been so mysteriously swept from the height of the Central Cylinder in Ar, long ago? She must have some importance to Pani, or to someone, or something, but what it might be, I did not know.

There had been twenty slaves in the private section of the Venna keeping area, those who had regularly been hooded. Alcinoe and I had seen them, even examined them, in the light of the lamp. It had been then that we had encountered amongst them, frightened, now only one slave amongst others, she who had been Talena, the Ubara of Ar, in the time of the Great Treason. I supposed that she had been given a name, as is usual with slaves, but I did not know what it was. I was sure that Seremides could recognize her, but I doubted that he knew she was about. I could recognize her, of course. And Alcinoe. But, as far as I knew, we might be the only three other than, presumably, some of the Pani, who could do so. I had no intention, of course, of revealing her identity. It might be worth one’s life to do so. I envied many of my fellow armsmen, who could simply look upon her, as a man looks upon a slave, as merely another slave. To be sure, that was how she should now be looked upon, as that is all she now was. Let a woman be looked upon as a slave. She is then looked upon as a woman.

I saw whip slaves, in their turn, moving past.

They were wrist-shackled identically with the others, and were similarly clad, and were barefoot. Gone were their switches. Gone now was their authority. As slaves they were poor stuff. I doubted that, stripped and exhibited, they would bring much off the block. To be sure, some men might like them. Perhaps some Peasants might buy them, to hoe suls, to pick beans, to swill tarsks, to draw the plow, to warm their feet in the winter.

I did not expect to recognize all the slaves from the private section of the Venna keeping area, having seen them but once, in poor light, but I had little doubt I could recognize some of them.

The last ten had, as noted, been joined to the coffle.

“See the pelt on that one,” said a fellow.

That was one, one from the private area, for sure. Her reddish hair, like a flame, burned to her very calves.

I then saw another I recalled.

Excellent, I thought. They are here, mixed in.

It was interesting to see them in the light. I remembered some six or seven.

Talena, I supposed, would be here somewhere.

“Keep your head down,” said one of the Pani youth to a slave, and struck her, stingingly, once on each calf, below the hem of the tunic. “Yes, Master!” she said. “Forgive me, Master!”

I was pleased.

Slaves should well understand themselves as slaves, for that is all they are.

It was a great temptation, of course, for them to look up, and ahead, toward the castle of Lord Temmu, far above.

Curiosity may not be becoming in a kajira, but they are inveterately curious. How they will wheedle and plead for the least tidbit of information, kissing one about the knees, looking up, hopefully. Their curiosity reminds one of that of the tiny, agile, scampering saru, hurrying about amongst the branches of the forests of the Ua.

Then I saw her, rather toward the end of the coffle, perhaps seventeenth, or eighteenth, from the end.

She did not see me, of course, for she kept her head down, as the slave she was, and, I gather, now knew herself to be.

If she had any doubt as to the matter, a bout with the lash would soon convince her.

It is an excellent, and beautiful, moment when a woman realizes that that is what she is, a slave.

She is then whole within herself, content, and loving.

The pain is ended.

She is the property of her master.

Yet she had no private master. She was the property of the ship, which is very different. The Pani, of course, could give her to anyone. Perhaps she might even be given to Lord Yamada, among other gifts, in a petition for peace, or mercy, or as a token of esteem or good will.

I watched her approach.

It was interesting to me. She might be now struck, no differently from any other slave.

Who, at one time, would have dared to think of striking Talena, Ubara of Ar?

Now, a slave, she was subject to the whip of a child.

Had she had true power in Ar, had she been a true Ubara, and not a puppet of the occupation, her word might have created and destroyed fortunes, humbled generals and exalted common armsmen; armies might have been marched at her word, and tarn cavalries launched, wars begun and wars ended, but she had had, for the most part, only the trappings of power, not power itself. Yet she had sat upon the throne, presided on public occasions, issued the decrees prescribed, and made the appointments recommended. She had seemed to have power, and I do not doubt but what the unastute thought it hers.

Now she was approaching, coffled.

I had attended, as a guardsman, many of her fetes and banquets, and had attended her, and others, at the theater, at concerts, and song dramas. Her regalia had been complex and sumptuous, rich and colorful, the envy of every free woman in the city, each pleat and fold carefully arranged by slaves; her slippers had been laced with pearls, her veils had shimmered with jewels. Cast flowers and sprinkled perfumes, drummers and flautists, preceded her chair, borne by mighty slaves, flanked by liveried guardsmen.

“There is a pretty one,” said a man.

“No, look at that one,” said a fellow, indicating another.

Men may look upon slaves appraisingly, as upon other beasts. If one may admire the silken coat, the flanks, of a kaiila, one may, as well, admire the pelt, the flanks, the curvature of a calf, the trimness of an ankle, the roundedness of a forearm, the delight of a shoulder and throat, the lissome figure, the exquisite features, of a lesser animal, a slave.

Talena had been said to be the most beautiful woman on all Gor. There was no doubt she was quite beautiful. I thought she might bring as much as four silver pieces off the block. To claim however that she was the most beautiful woman on all Gor seemed absurd. A similar claim might have been made of thousands of free women, and with considerably more justification, given their revelatory garmenture, their total lack of veiling, and such, of tens of thousands of slaves. Who is to assess the complementarities, and mysteries, of such matters? A woman who is a pot girl to one fellow may be a dream to another, worthy of a diamond collar and a chain at the foot of a Ubar’s throne. There was no doubt that the traitress, the former false Ubara, Talena, was lovely. I myself, however, would have preferred to have the lips and tongue of another on my feet.

She who had worn the medallion of power in Ar now passed me, far from the city, far from her flatterers and servitors, far from the throne, merely another slave, wrist-shackled, tunicked, and barefoot.

The climb to the castle would be lengthy, and arduous.

Looking up toward the rail from the wharf, I saw Seremides, watching the Pani below.

I supposed that he would remain on the ship.

On the wharf, I saw Tereus. A mariner, assigned the wharf watch, in charge of order here, posted to discourage loitering and prevent pilfering, spoke to Tereus, and he began to ascend the trail.

I thought it wise for Seremides to remain on the ship.

Many were those who wished him dead.

Some of the lesser Pani were already returning to the wharf. Some bore sedan chairs, by means of which contract women might be carried to the castle.

I waited about.

A light rain began to fall.

Such rains, I would learn, are common in the area, and, not unoften, rains far more severe.

I supposed that Philoctetes had preceded me.

Licinius Lysias passed, and we exchanged greetings. I was uneasy in his presence. Early in the voyage, when a galley was launched, he had often been chained to his bench. As we had no bench slaves on board, such fellows usually found on round ships, I supposed him a recreant of sorts, spared for his strength at an oar. Later he had sat his bench not otherwise than the rest of us. More than once we had drawn oar together.

I was not eager to ascend the long climb alone.

Men passed me, and I thought of joining them, but one prefers fellows one knows.

Leros, and Aeacus, whom I knew from the high watches, had been in the first contingent and were doubtless already within the castle, or its walls.

I had turned about, finally, to join others, to make my way upward, when I heard my name called, “Callias!”

I turned about, and, to my surprise, one not pleasant, I saw Seremides hobbling toward me, the crutch striking on the wharf planks.

“Noble Rutilius,” I said.

“You know me from Ar,” he snarled.

“So who are you?” I asked.

“Rutilius, Rutilius, of Ar,” he said.

“Of course,” I said.

“There are no bounties here,” he said.

“Clearly,” I said.

“You saved my life,” he said.

“I had not thought the matter through,” I said.

“It is a life worthless enough, as it is,” he said.

“It is worth what it is to you,” I said.

“You protected me on the ship,” he said, “from the sleen, Tereus, from the bullying urts, Aeson, Thoas, and Andros. I have never forgotten that.”

“Thoas and Andros were slain on the ship, during the boarding, near the Warning Ship,” I said. “Aeson was found in the water, near the ship, dead, the morning after the ambush, after the evacuation of the beach.”

“Oh?” he said.

“Their deaths were not well understood,” I said.

“I see,” he said.

“You smile,” I noted.

“Have you seen the oarsman, Tereus, about?” he asked.

“Surely you saw him from the rail,” I said. “He was ordered from the wharf.”

“He is gone?”

“Toward the castle,” I said.

“He was waiting for me,” said Seremides.

“I conjectured as much,” I said.

“He intends to kill me,” said Seremides.

“Do not be alone with him,” I said. “Do not accept a challenge.”

“In Ar,” he said, “I could have cut off his ears and nose, and hamstrung him, before ramming my blade into his heart.”

“You should have remained on the ship,” I said.

“I was roped, raging, and lowered to the wharf, helpless, while they laughed, like a bag of sa-tarna.”

“You are not of the Pani,” I said. “Neither are you an officer, nor a mariner.”

“They put me off to die,” he said.

“Perhaps,” I said. I thought that possible.

“Protect me,” he said.

“Are you afraid?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said, angrily.

“Seremides, afraid?” I said.

“As Seremides is,” he said, “Seremides is entitled to fear.”

“Certainly you have sent many before you to the Cities of Dust,” I said.

“Never without cause,” he said.

“Causes are easily come by,” I said.

“Help me,” he said.

“Why?” I asked.

“People pay me little attention,” he said. “They ignore me. They do not know I am about. I do not matter. They speak freely before me. I hear things. I know matters which might be of interest to you, and others.”

“I must be on my way,” I said.

“How can I climb that hill?” he asked, angrily, gesturing with the tip of the narrow crutch.

“It will be difficult,” I said.

“In Ar, we were brothers in arms,” he said.

“In Ar,” I said, “I was a fellow of the occupation, you were a traitor.”

“We are of the ship,” he said.

“You are a killer,” I said. “And I think you are a murderer.”

“You see me as one betrayed by fortune,” he said. “Behold, I who once was formidable, mighty and feared, high in Ar, second only to Myron, polemarkos of Temos, am now reduced, am now no more than a mockery of a man, a helpless cripple, at the mercy of the meanest villain or rogue.”

“I depart,” I said. “Do not expect me to wish you well.”

“Help me,” he said.

“If I am with you,” I said, “the same blade which seeks you may strike me.”

“Are you afraid?” he asked.

“Certainly,” I said.

“Who but you,” he asked, “would protect me?”

“Cabot would,” I said. “Tarl Cabot.” I thought of him as perhaps as great a fool as I.

“Is he here?”

“I do not know where he is,” I said.

“Protect me,” he said.

“Seek another,” I said.

“We are of the same ship,” he said.

I cried out in rage.

“The same ship,” he smiled.

“Give me your arm,” I said.

As he lurched toward me, he brushed against me.

“You are armed,” I said.

“Of course,” he said.

We then addressed ourselves to the trail, in the light rain.