Mariners of Gor

Chapter Five

The sixth passage hand was done, the autumnal equinox had been marked in the scribal calendar of Jad, Se’Kara was done, and, as nearly as I could tell, it was the third or fourth day in the seventh passage hand.

It was a bright day.

Had the Metioche not crossed paths with the great ship she would now be in her shed in Telnus, in her winter berth, and I, and her crew, cleared and paid by a harbor marshal, wallets bulging with copper, would have gone our ways, some scattering through a hundred towns and villages, others remaining in Telnus, seeking the delights and comforts of the port. For those remaining in Telnus, a refundable fee would have been deducted from our pay, this entitling us to housing in the port dormitory, and the right to a meal, once daily, at the common tables, this an insurance against an empty purse, a hungry stomach, and a lodging on a winter street. This was provided only for state mariners. Private mariners must make do as they can, in the city or outside of it. Some coasting is done but, on the whole, in the off season, the port is quiet. After a lean dark winter spring is welcome. The shed doors are opened, the vessels on their rollers emerge, into the light, as though awakening, and the rigging, refitting, caulking, and painting begins. It is lovely when, later, the ships, wreathed with flowers, to singing and music, are brought to the water. Oil, and wine, and salt are poured into Thassa, the oil to calm her waters, the wine that she may be warmed and pleased, and the salt, in its preciousness, for honor, prestige, life, and hope, and, too, that it may be mixed with her own, that she may accept the ship as one with her, to be sheltered and protected, as sister, as kin. But, woe, I was far from Telnus, and her comforts. Her steep, narrow streets, her lights, her taverns, her slaves, perfumed and painted, their wrists and ankles jangling with bells, with tender lips and well-rounded, warm arms, were far distant.

I looked over the rail.

Thassa was restless.

There were white whispers in the water.

The wind was rising.

This was no time to be abroad on Thassa. Did they know so little of her moods, of her temper?

It was cool on deck, in the open, in the wind, even for the brightness, but I was not uncomfortable. I was dressed warmly, a jacket, cloak, tunic, leggings, soft boots. It was much warmer, of course, below decks, away from the wind. Yet, later, I was sure, the cold, despite the corridors, the braziers, the lamps, would reach even the mysterious labyrinths below.

“As I understand it,” said Tarl Cabot, the tarnsman whom I had encountered the preceding day during my interrogation, “you were not armed when found.”

“No,” I said. “On a Cosian warship only the officers are armed, until an engagement is imminent, and then weapons are distributed.”

This arrangement is not that unusual. It adds to the authority of officers, and tends to reduce the likelihood of serious harm amongst the men. It takes time, usually, to beat a fellow bloody and senseless, and he is likely to recover sooner or later, and perhaps put an end to the quarrel over a jug of paga, but an angry word, a swift movement, and a flash of steel, and one may well have lost a shipmate, and eventually, given the friendships and alliances amongst the men, more than one. Those on board a ship constitute a small community, confined within a circumscribed area. A strict discipline must be maintained on board, as in a cage of sleen, lest they tear one another to pieces. There is nowhere to run. Tempers may flare. Blood may beget blood. I saw that the fellows about, and there were several, were all armed. This confirmed my suspicion that I was in the midst of pirates. In any event, many of these fellows seemed to me dangerous men. This was no common crew. For what purpose, and by what means, might these men have been assembled? I thought again of the cage of sleen. What but the whip and spear might maintain order in such a cage? But, who, too, I asked myself, might disarm such men?

“You know the blade?” asked the tarnsman.

“Passably,” I said.

He was a tarnsman. Few men master tarns, few dare their saddles.

“When have you last drawn, fenced, put your skills to the test?” he asked.

“Not since Ar,” I said. “Months ago. I sold my blade.”

“One does not sell one’s blade,” he said.

“I needed money,” I said.

“One dies first,” he said.

“I am not of the warriors,” I said.

“But you take fee?” he said.

“Yes,” I said.

From his presence at my interview, or interrogation, I took him to be an officer of some sort.

His accent was unusual. I could not place it. Perhaps Harfax.

I did not think he bore me any ill will. Indeed, yesterday, on my behalf, he had stood against Seremides himself. Perhaps he did not know, as I did, the skills of the former captain of the Taurentians. I knew of no blade the equal of his. Something in the eyes or mien of this man suggested he might be other than many here; oddly enough, for the venue, I suspected he might once have been no stranger to honor; such I would not have sensed in Seremides. I wondered if he were once of the warriors, perhaps long ago. Such men may betray the codes, but they are not likely to forget them. It is hard to forget the codes. Is it not a saying of warriors that one does not sell one’s blade, that steel is to be prized above gold? And honor above life? How came then such a man here, if he were such a man, on this ship, amidst this unlikely, motley crew? Had he betrayed the codes? But it is difficult to forget the codes. There were always the codes, the codes. I supposed them fools, such men, but there are such men. One mocks them until one needs them. Who else, when one is in mortal jeopardy, would one prefer to have at one’s back? They are of the scarlet caste. Such men, at the least, like the Assassins, are likely to kill quickly, and cleanly.

“You inquired, yesterday,” he said, “of other survivors, from the Metioche. There were several. But none were brought aboard. They were picked up by the private galley of Lord Okimoto, captained at the time by Rutilius of Ar, first in his guard.”

“They were slain?” I asked.

“Yes, to a man,” he said.

“And thus,” I said, “they would not survive, perhaps to enlighten others as to the existence of a great ship, a mysterious, monstrous vessel, unlicensed in our waters.”

“Fortunately for yourself,” he said, “you were picked up by a second galley, the port-amidships galley, captained by the mercenary, Torgus.”

“And now I die?” I asked.

“We shall see,” said the tarnsman.

“Hail Rutilius!” we heard. “Rutilius of Ar!”

The men who were crowded about then parted, and stepped back, clearing a space on the deck.

I removed my cloak, setting it aside, on the rail.

The man identified as Rutilius of Ar then stood at the edge of a circle, some feet of cleared space between us. Without taking his eyes off me he unclasped his cloak and handed it to a fellow, a fellow garbed as he was, in the yellow livery of what I would come to recognize as that of Lord Okimoto’s retinue. I saw nothing of Lord Okimoto himself. Perhaps the morning’s work of Seremides was of little interest to him, the outcome being a foregone conclusion, or perhaps, merely, he did not care to share, or dabble in, the pleasures of his subordinates.

I wondered if Lord Okimoto had instructed Seremides that survivors were to be put to the sword. I rather doubted it. He had not seemed much concerned, in the interrogation, with my fate, one way or another. Quite possibly he had issued no instructions. Quite possibly he had left such matters to the judgment of Seremides, the Seremides I knew.

“Are you ready to die?” asked Seremides.

“I am unarmed,” I said.

He slipped the sheath from his left shoulder, and, grasping it, drew his blade, easily, casually. It made no sound, as the sheath was lined. This is not uncommon with the sheath of an Assassin’s weapon, this permitting the weapon’s noiseless departure. It does, slightly, slow the draw. The sheath with belt he then handed, as he had the cloak, to the fellow with him. When danger is not imminent, the sheath belt is usually worn across the body, as this provides greater security, the weapon then at the left hip. If a locale is deemed dangerous the sheath belt is usually looped over the left shoulder. In this way, the weapon freed, the sheath and belt may be discarded, as it constitutes a graspable encumbrance. The sword was the gladius, double-edged, some eighteen inches of steel, long enough to outreach a knife, short enough, light enough, dexterous enough, to work behind the guard of a longer, heavier weapon.

“Five days ago,” said Seremides, addressing himself to the seeming rabble about, “without provocation, we were attacked by Cosian pirates, who attempted to burn our ship. We fought. We resisted. We conquered. Then we punished. Those who did not drown were executed, with but one exception, the sleen before you who was mistakenly spared, who should have been bloodied and given to Thassa’s hungry children, an offering to her justice, that he not soil our ship with his unclean, impenitent, criminal presence.”

“My name is Callias,” I said. “My Home Stone is that of Jad, on Cos. Perhaps some of you share her Home Stone with me. I was an oarsman on the Cosian patrol ship, the Metioche, out of Telnus. We are not pirates. You were in Cosian waters. We pursued you, investigating. We fired on you in self-defense. If any have been wronged here it is surely we, and not you. I think a mountain has little to fear from a pebble, a draft tharlarion from a stable urt.”

Seremides regarded me, measuring me, and smiled.

Some men enjoy killing, and I did not doubt but what one of these was Seremides, formerly first sword amongst the Taurentians. On the other hand, had I been another, and not one who knew him from Ar, I doubt that he would have been much concerned with me, nor would have so zealously set himself to have my blood. I was a witness, as was the slave, Alcinoe, who might identify him as the former captain of the Taurentians, traitor and arch-conspirator, he who had stood high in Ar during the reign of the puppet Ubara, Talena, one of those who, like Talena and the former Lady Flavia of Ar, her confidante, had a price on his head. I recalled how he had so persistently urged my death in the meeting below decks yesterday. He might have killed me then, had it not been for the intervention of the tarnsman, Tarl Cabot. Apparently I constituted a threat to him, at least in his mind, of considerable portent. Were I he I would doubtless have been similarly apprehensive. I looked over the rail, at Thassa, wanting to see her, again, if only for the last time. But she seemed uneasy, cold and dark, and there was a roll of clouds unfurling over her brow in the north.

“I, Rutilius of Ar,” said Seremides, “do not countenance an enemy amongst us. Who knows whose throat might be cut in his sleep by this sleen? Will you share water and rations, and loot and slaves, with one who would have delivered you to the teeth of flames or the fangs of sharks? Will we have an enemy, a deadly foe, amongst us?”

It interested me that Seremides seemed to feel it incumbent upon him to justify a projected murder. It had not been that way in Ar. Here it seemed he was not captain, here it seemed a certain wariness might be in order. For that I was grateful. The sword here did not seem to be a law unto itself, or at least his sword. The fellows about, as far as I could see, were not much interested in charges and countercharges, denunciations and defenses, and such, as in seeing what might ensue. I recalled that in Ar, I, and others, in the early morning, had occasionally gathered to watch Seremides make a kill.

“I see no judge here, no court,” I said.

“This is the court,” said Seremides, “and I am the judge.”

“I do not think so,” said a polite voice.

I looked to the side, and saw standing there he of the Pani, whom I would learn was Lord Nishida. I did not know how long he had been there, how much he had heard. I did remember that he had said that today was to be the day on which I would live or die.

I was pleased to see Lord Nishida present. He wore an oddly cut robe, with short, wide sleeves. In his sash were two swords. This, I sensed, from yesterday, and today, given the deference with which he was regarded, was a person of moment. I knew not how long I might live, so, in this august presence, I pointed to Seremides, and stated, clearly, loudly, and emphatically, “His name is not Rutilius of Ar!”

Seremides instantly rushed at me and I saw the flash of the blade descending but heard a ringing of steel and saw a flash of sparks and another blade had been interposed, that of the tarnsman. Seremides backed away, warily, his weapon poised, the point moving like the head of an excited, coiled ost.

“Many men here,” said Lord Nishida, quietly, “are known elsewhere by other names. The guard of Lord Okimoto, as he wills, is Rutilius of Ar amongst us. That is acceptable to us, and is not to be questioned. If you know another name, or another time, or another place, do not speak it. This ship, and our mission, is now our world. What matters elsewhere does not matter here. What matters here does not matter elsewhere.”

“I see,” I said.

“So,” said Lord Nishida, “what is his name?”

I looked at Seremides. “His name,” I said, “is Rutilius of Ar.”

Seremides smiled.

Could it be, I asked myself, that it does not truly matter to them that Seremides of Ar might be amongst them? But then I thought, perhaps it does not matter, not here. Who would act upon such intelligence? To whom would one remand Seremides of Ar? How would one petition for, or collect, the bounty? Who is there to pay, or act in this matter? Information which might mean wealth and power on the continent, information which might put armies on the march, which might launch ships, which might flight tarn cavalries, would here be without practical consequences. Indeed, here, some might not even know of Seremides of Ar, and of those who knew some might see their fortunes as best linked to his, particularly if, through his agency, Talena might be found. Who would be more likely to know the Ubara, her habits, her hiding places, than Seremides of Ar, from whom she had been stolen on the height of the Central Cylinder months ago? I wondered how he came to be on this ship, and for what reason. I knew the secret of Seremides, but here that knowledge was of little consequence, other than to place my life in jeopardy. Seremides had little to fear from me now. But I had much to fear from him, or from those who might be enleagued with him. Perhaps, I thought, his identity was known to Lord Okimoto, even to Lord Nishida. I did not know. I would be silent. Presumably Seremides knew that the former Lady Flavia of Ar was on board. I recalled that he had asked that she be given to him. I suspected that she did not know he was on board. As a slave, she might have been kept much in ignorance. That is not unusual with slaves. They are slaves. Thus, she might not know that he, unbeknownst to herself, might have seen her, might have looked upon her now-bared face, a face now slave-bare, a face now denied the dignity and modesty of veiling, a face which must now be as exposed to public view as that of any other animal, a face recalled by him from her vanity in Ar. How terrified she might be if she, now as any other slave, a purchasable object, a mere article of property, might be given to him.

“This Cosian sleen,” said Seremides to Lord Nishida, while not taking his eyes off me, “is an enemy, to be put to death, one who wished us harm, not to be tolerated amongst us.”

“Do you speak on behalf of Lord Okimoto?” inquired Lord Nishida.

“I bespeak on behalf of all,” said Seremides.

“Not on my behalf,” said Tarl Cabot, quietly.

I was pleased to see that several of the fellows about seemed to take this seriously. The words of the tarnsman, I gathered, were words to which several present might attend.

I would learn later he was a commander amongst them.

“Did you not say, yesterday,” asked Seremides, “that today this Cosian sleen was to die?”

“That he was to live, or die,” said Lord Nishida.

“That may be easily determined,” said Seremides.

“I am unarmed,” I said.

“Then kneel down, and lower your head, to be swiftly slain, unarmed. I shall be quick. Or, if unarmed, run, until there is nowhere else to run, and then die. Or seek Thassa. Perhaps you can swim to Cos!”

I recalled the thought of the cage of sleen. Where, within the bars, might a small sleen flee?

“Permit me to perform the execution,” said Seremides.

“Execution?” inquired Lord Nishida.

“To put to death this enemy,” said Seremides.

“There will be no execution,” said Lord Nishida.

“Very well,” said Seremides, and turned to me. “Challenge!” he said.

“I am unarmed,” I said.

“Arm him!” said Seremides.

“I know your blade,” I said. “I am no match for it.”

“Arm him!” said Seremides.

“No,” I said.

“Challenge! Challenge!” cried Seremides.

“I do not accept your challenge,” I said.

The men about reacted to this, looking about, startled. Amongst them, this response was incomprehensible.

Seremides himself seemed startled.

“Cosian,” sneered a fellow.

“They are all alike,” said another.

“No,” said another fellow who, I supposed, was Cosian. Under his reproachful gaze I suffered.

“No place here for such as he,” said a man.

“True!” said the fellow I took to be Cosian.

“Craven urt,” said another.

“Over the rail with him,” said a fellow.

“Kill him,” said another, “and be done with it.”

I clenched my fists.

“Not at our table will he eat,” said a man.

“Let him fear to go on deck after dark,” said another.

“Perhaps,” said Tarl Cabot, quietly, “you would accept a champion?”

“No!” cried several men, in gray.

Seremides stepped back a pace. Had a sudden flicker of disquiet crossed his features? In any event, for whatever reason, it seemed clear he did not welcome this intrusion. Yet I knew well the former captain of the Taurentians. What had he to fear? City champions had reeled from his blade.

“No,” I said, “I will not have another fight for me.” The tarnsman, Tarl Cabot, I gathered, did not know the skills of Seremides. I would not have another die for me. Even were he, somehow, a match for the former Taurentian’s skills, it would be wrong of me to accept his intervention. A Merchant, a laborer, a free woman might accept it, but I could not, not in honor. I had served Cos.

“A challenge has been issued,” said Seremides. “I do not accept its rejection. That is my right.”

“An Assassin’s right,” I said.

“Prepare to die,” said Seremides, “armed or unarmed.”

“Hold,” said Lord Nishida, lifting his hand, the sleeve falling back about his wrist, as he did so. “Good Callias,” said Lord Nishida, “I do not think you are a coward. Why, then, do you refuse to accept the challenge?”

“It is a challenge without honor,” I said. “The animosity borne to me by your Rutilius of Ar has nothing to do with Cos and Ar, with politics or war, with defense or security, nor with justice or law. It is personal, and from the past. I know of things of which I gather I am not to speak, and it is because of this that your Rutilius of Ar seeks my blood, that he may have nothing more to fear from me. He knows I am no match for him. Thus, he would conceal a murder beneath a veil of equitable arbitration, of fair contest, mask a murder under the mantle of a duel. If he would kill me let him do so now, publicly, in cold blood, dishonorably cutting down an unarmed man, one who holds him in contempt. So let my death soil him, and cling to him in the eyes of men, marking him, proclaiming him for what he is in fact, a wretch, a dissembler, a fugitive, a criminal, a coward, a butcher.”

“I do not know this Cosian,” said Seremides. “Nor do I understand him. It seems he has me confused with another. That is neither here nor there. But, if he will not fight, if he is so craven and cowardly, so much a frightened urt, so enamored of his worthless existence, so unwilling to risk it in fair, open combat, that is his choice. Certainly I cannot, in cold blood, slay an unarmed man. Doubtless he understands that, and thus tries to purchase his worthless life, counting on my honor. Such a killing, however in order, he doubtless realizes would not be permitted by my honor, an honor which I hold sacred, and have never betrayed. Too, it would be embarrassing for me to allow the blood of such a piteously craven urt to stain, however briefly, an honorable blade, that of Rutilius of Ar.”

Some of the men about smote their left shoulders, in approval.

“Yes, yes,” said others.

“Do not go on deck after dark,” said a fellow to me.

“But,” said Seremides, “if he is to crawl amongst us, as the slithering ost, unnoticed but deadly, tiny and poisonous, must he not in some way purchase his passage?”

“Yes,” said more than one man.

“That was my intention,” said Lord Nishida.

“I have no money,” I said.

“One purchases one’s passage with steel,” said Seremides. “I earned my berth by slaying six men.”

“True,” said a fellow, “six.”

“Passage is dear on this vessel,” said a fellow, “not free.”

“The Cosian has proved he is afraid to fight,” said another.

“At the ringing of steel, the laughter of blades, he would hide,” said another.

“Over the rail with him,” said another.

“Berths are limited, Cosian,” said Seremides. “They are to be earned, and in such a way that the best occupy them. Let the slow and clumsy perish, let the swift and skillful live. Let the weak die, let the strong survive. It is the way of nature, that of the tarn, of the sleen and larl. If one is added, let one be subtracted.”

I shrugged. “Give me a blade,” I said.

“Excellent,” said Lord Nishida. “It is as I and Tarl Cabot, tarnsman, intended.”

I had thought the tarnsman bore me no ill will. Now I was to be matched, to the death.

A blade was brought, nicely balanced. It was a not unfamiliar sensation, having such an instrument of war again in my grasp. Surely I preferred it to the oar. I touched the blade to my sleeve, and saw the threads part. I looked about. One or two men looked uneasy. One stepped back. I smiled. I was now, again, a man among men.

The tarnsman smiled.

“Bring the thief and wretch, Philoctetes, from his cell,” said Lord Nishida. “He has fed enough.”

The cloaks of some of the men moved in the wind. The yards above, carrying their large square sails, creaked, turning, as the sails took the rising wind, moving from a gray north.

In a few moments the prisoner was on deck, and given a weapon, rather as mine. We stood a few feet from one another. He was in a ragged blue tunic. He stood unsteadily.

“My dear Callias,” said Lord Nishida, “you behold before you a trustless rogue, Philoctetes, a miscreant and felon, a liar, a cheater at stones, one who robs men at night, who steals food, obtaining extra rations for himself, a villain who would cut a throat for a copper tarsk.”

“I trust that he is skilled,” I said.

“Enough,” said Lord Nishida. “He may not have the skills of one who stood first spear, but we deem his skills adequate for our purposes, that of adjudicating a war right to a berth. I advise you not to take him casually. A lucky stroke might fetch him freedom.”

I moved the blade about.

It had been long since I had held such a weapon.

Lord Nishida, the tarnsman, and others, moved back, further enlarging the space at our disposal. The boards of the deck were white, and closely fitted, stone cleaned.

Philoctetes seemed unsteady.

“Has he been fed,” I asked.

“Yes,” said Lord Nishida.

I faced Philoctetes. “Are you ready?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“You wear the blue of Cos,” I said.

“It is my right,” he said.

“You are Cosian?” I said.

He shrugged.

“My Home Stone,” I said, “is that of Jad.”

He regarded me. “That, too,” he said, “is mine.”

“You must,” said Lord Nishida, addressing me, “be prepared to forswear your Home Stone.”

“One of us is to die?” I asked.

“Yes,” said Lord Nishida.

“Have you forsworn the Home Stone?” I asked Philoctetes.

“No,” he said.

“Then,” said I, “stand at my back and we will die together.”

“You are serious?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said, turning my back to him, facing those about, my sword ready. I saw several of the men about look at one another, and then draw their weapons.

“You are Callias?” asked Philoctetes.

“Yes,” I said, puzzled. I could not see him behind me. I did not sense him at my back.

It occurred to me, suddenly, that the back of my neck was open to his blade.

“Hail, Callias!” I heard, from Philoctetes. “Hail, Callias!” cried men about, and the swords which had been drawn were lifted, in salute. I spun about and saw that Philoctetes did not now seem as he had before. He stood straight, and powerful, solid on his feet. He had wiped something from his face, a pale salve or such, and it seemed ruddier now. The blade he had returned to a fellow behind him. “Hail Cos,” he said, and we embraced.

“Excellent,” said Lord Nishida. “It came about as I had expected.”

“I could not kill one whose Home Stone I shared,” I said.

“We thought not,” said Lord Nishida.

“I did not forswear my Home Stone,” I said.

“From yesterday,” said Lord Nishida, “we did not think you would, but we did not know.”

“Philoctetes played his role well,” observed Tarl Cabot.

“What if I had forsworn my Home Stone?” I asked.

“That would have been a great disappointment,” said Lord Nishida. “Our journey is long and dangerous, and we will have need of men who will not forswear their Home Stones.”

“What if I had fought?” I asked.

“You would not have fought,” said Lord Nishida, touching the unusual, curved hilt of one of the swords in his sash, “for I would have cut off your head, before the blades could touch.”

“Welcome,” said Tarl Cabot, “to the ship’s company.”

I looked about, but Seremides had left the deck.

I heard the snapping of canvas overhead.

The men about had sheathed their weapons, and were going their ways when, turning about, a cry of wonder escaped them. I looked forward, to the stem castle, to discern the reason for their awe. There, on the stem castle, behind its aft rail, a small figure, bent and twisted, stood, in cloak and mariner’s cap, looking to windward, to the north.

“Tersites!” cried men.

“He is dead!” exclaimed others.

“We witnessed his burning,” said another.

“I was at the pyre,” said another.

“I have heard of him,” I said. This was true. Legends of the mad, half-blind shipwright, Tersites, I did not doubt, had reached even the farther islands. Until now I did not realize he was a real person. From the outcry I gathered that many had not realized he was aboard.

“I saw him burned,” whispered a man.

“No,” said Tarl Cabot.

“You knew he was alive?” said Lord Nishida.

“I examined bones, found amongst the ashes of the pyre,” said Tarl Cabot. “They were the bones of a tarsk.”

“It was better,” said Lord Nishida, “that he be thought dead, that such a word be carried south, that the apprehension of enemies be assuaged, that none might seek his secrets, that his plans would be thought lost forever, that no ship such as this could be built, or, if built, duplicated.”

“Yet,” said Cabot, “we were attacked, at the mouth of the Alexandra.”

“The concealment of the northern forests proved insufficient,” said Lord Nishida.

“Surely you will explain to me one day the nature of our enterprise,” said Tarl Cabot.

“It has to do with Priest-Kings and Others,” said Lord Nishida. “It is, I take it, a wager of sorts.”

“And what hangs upon the outcome of this wager?” asked Tarl Cabot.

“I think,” said Lord Nishida, “the fate of two worlds.”

“Callias,” said Philoctetes, “a storm is near. Come below. Leave the taking in of sail, the governance of the ship, to mariners.”

“It is too late in the season to be abroad on Thassa,” I said.

“I agree,” said Philoctetes.

“I trust that oil was poured into the sea, and wine, and salt,” I said.

“No,” said Philoctetes. “They were not. Come below. A storm is upon us.”

I fetched my cloak, and accompanied Philoctetes below.