by John Norman
“Yes,” said Tajima.
“Had tarns not been withheld at the time,” I said, “the exploratory force might have been better apprised of the position and movements of the enemy, and, warned in time, and retracted, spared its decimation, its rout, and the bloody, harrying pursuit to which it was subjected.”
“That is likely,” said Tajima.
The point at the time, at least in terms of strategy, was to conceal the cavalry until its appearance, presumably at the turning point of a crucial battle, might have a devastating psychological effect on a startled, superstitious enemy, and turn the tide in favor of the house of Temmu. The exploratory force, on the other hand, had failed to scout and assess the enemy, let alone bring about a situation which, properly exploited, would be likely to lead to a major confrontation. The common understanding of its debacle was the superior intelligence of the enemy, an intelligence which, it was suspected, had its origin in the holding of Temmu itself.
“But now,” I said, “with tarns at our disposal, our intelligence should be at least equivalent to, if not superior to, that of the enemy.”
“I shall hope so,” said Tajima.
“The siege is lifted,” I said. “Surely it is time now to act, if only to probe.”
“Much has changed, Tarl Cabot, tarnsman, since you have visited the holding.”
“I am sure of it,” I said.
“I have fearful things to communicate,” said Tajima.
“But all is going well,” I said.
“On the surface,” he said.
I recalled that when he had first spoken to me he had seemed uneasy, even disturbed.
“Lord Temmu, Lord Okimoto,” he said, “did not approve of your unauthorized use of the cavalry.”
“I did not expect them to,” I said.
“They are pleased, of course, that the siege is lifted.”
“I should hope so,” I said.
“The use of the cavalry was not authorized,” he said.
“I know,” I said.
“It is requested that you report to the holding immediately,” he said, “to be interviewed.”
“‘Interviewed’?” I said.
“The word is carefully chosen,” said Tajima.
“I shall be in no hurry to participate in this interview,” I said.
“You refuse?” asked Tajima.
“For the present,” I said.
“I think that is wise,” said Tajima.
“Is that the sum of your news?” I asked.
“No,” said Tajima. “I must, with regret, speak three things, one I do not understand, one I am afraid I understand, and one I understand, and would that I did not understand.”
“Speak,” I said.
“An emissary from the palace of Lord Yamada, Tyrtaios, the mercenary, has come again to the dais,” said Tajima. “He begs us to surrender.”
“I do not understand,” I said. “Is he, or Lord Yamada, mad? The siege is lifted. Major forces have been withdrawn. General Yamada turns his attention to his homeland, circumspect and watchful over his possessions. He is like an angry larl, quiescent in his den. He is not springing forth. He is uncertain. He is waiting. War may soon pound on his gates. His peasantry may be stirring.”
“Lord Yamada,” said Tajima, “has had read for him the bones and shells, and in these troubled days of strange things and darkness, fears that the iron dragon will awaken, and if awaken, will spread its wings and fly.”
“He is afraid?” I asked.
“It seems so,” said Tajima.
“And what have the bones and shells to say about iron dragons?” I asked.
“It is said that unless the house of Temmu yields to the house of Yamada the iron dragon will emerge from its den and destroy the house of Temmu.”
“That sounds convenient,” I said. “Why should this worry Lord Yamada?”
“Who knows what will occur should the iron dragon spread its wings?” asked Tajima. “Its shadow might lie upon the islands. Might not the rice wither and die in that darkness? Who knows the temper and appetite of the iron dragon? How long it has been since it has last flown! What if it is angry? What if it is hungry? What if it is insatiable? Might it not alight upon the palaces of Yamada as well as upon the holding of Temmu? Might its claws not tear the land and cast it into the sea, might not its jaws seize the sun and devour it, plunging the world into darkness?”
“If the bones and shells were read in the holding,” I said, “I would expect them to foretell the jeopardy of the house of Yamada, should the iron dragon emerge from its den.”
“It is hard sometimes to understand the bones and shells,” said Tajima.
“Dear friend,” I said, “you are not native to this world, no more than I. The world from which we derive may in many ways be thoughtless, foolish, shallow, decadent, materialistic, and cruel, but it is, at least, a world in which there are no iron dragons.”
“Much may depend on what might be an iron dragon,” said Tajima.
“On the world from which we derive,” I said, “there are no iron dragons.”
“This,” said he, “is not the world from which we derive.”
“There are no iron dragons,” I said. “That is a beast of mythology. It is a creature only of stories, a creature of dark, fearful legends.”
“You are right, of course, Tarl Cabot, tarnsman,” he said. “I spoke foolishly.”
“To be sure,” I said, “the exploitation of superstition can be a weapon of war, as well as an instrument of prestige, power, and profit.”
“The second thing of which I am reluctant to speak,” he said, “is one I am afraid I understand only too well.”
“I trust,” I said, “it is no more important than the first thing, the empty prattle about iron dragons.”
“It is reasonably clear, is it not,” asked Tajima, “that Lord Yamada has sources of information originating from within the holding?”
“Perfectly clear,” I said. “How else explain the massacre at the first encampment, and the ambush and decimation of the exploratory force?”
Many lives, and tarns, had been lost in the massacre at the first encampment, and many more lives had been lost in the defeat of the exploratory force. The great sleen, lame Ramar, first encountered on a steel world, had been housed at the first encampment. I did not know his fate. As the body had not been found, and no reports had been made of his whereabouts, it was supposed he had disappeared during the confusion of the attack. I did not think any Ashigaru would have paused in the tumult of the fighting to attend to the discomfiting of so dangerous a beast. Few would have been so unwise, or so much at leisure, as to attack it, and I doubted that any would have been so foolish as to challenge its departure. Indeed, knowing Ramar I doubted he would have left the encampment without feeding.
“You may recall,” said Tajima, “the prohibition of unauthorized personnel on the parapets, prior to the ruse or deceit of the ritual knife.”
“Of course,” I said. “That was necessary to prevent signals or messages being transmitted to the camp of Yamada, which would have betrayed our plan. Indeed, the success of the plan would have been in no small part due to this precaution.”
“Afterwards,” said Tajima, “one might ascend again, as before, to the outer parapets.”
“This is not merely, perhaps unwisely, to restore a lost privilege,” I said, “but to arouse the suspicions of Lord Yamada pertaining to his informants. Why did they not reveal the ruse of the ritual knife? Have they been discovered? Is he again receiving messages? Is it his informants who are sending them, or others? Can he rely on such reports now? And so on.”
“I have discovered the spy,” said Tajima.
“I trust it is not I,” I said.
“No, Tarl Cabot, tarnsman,” he said.
“I was suspected by many,” I said.
“It is not you,” said Tajima.
“I am pleased to hear it,” I said. “Surely you have brought your informati
on to Lord Temmu.”
“No,” said Tajima.
“I do not understand,” I said.
“The guilty party stands close to the shogun,” said Tajima.
“I was sure this would be the case,” I said. “Now you are wary of revealing his identity, fearing disbelief, fearing terrible consequences, possibly lacking adequate proof.”
“I did not know what to do,” he said.
“Doubtless the situation is sensitive,” I said. “It may be best at the moment, to do nothing. An identified spy, unaware of his detection, is not likely to be dangerous. Information may be withheld from him. Watched, he may lead to others. Too, he may be used as a conduit by means of which false information may be conveyed to the enemy.”
“I seek the counsel of my commander,” said Tajima.
“You are sure you have discovered the spy?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said.
“How, where?” I asked.
“In the holding I often maintained a vigil on the outer parapet. From the outer parapet it seemed a message to the enemy might be most easily and safely transmitted, by the subtle and unnoted casting of a note below, to be retrieved by the enemy. A signal of light, from either the second or third parapet, or from a window of the castle, would be far more likely to be noted.”
“That is why the outer parapet was substantially closed, prior to the implementation of the ruse of the ritual knife,” I said.
“Concealing myself in the shadows,” said Tajima, “I saw the note cast down, to the valley below.”
“If you had been fully recovered and stationed here,” I said, “you would not have made this discovery.”
“I am not pleased to have made it,” said Tajima.
“Who is the spy?” I asked.
Tajima regarded me, not speaking.
“Lord Okimoto,” I said.
“Lord Nishida,” said Tajima.
“That is impossible,” I said.
“No,” said Tajima.
“Impossible,” I said.
“He is your friend,” said Tajima.
“Even so,” I said. “It is impossible. He was master of Tarncamp, he supported the formation of the tarn cavalry and its training. I know him best, saving you, of all the Pani. He is loyal to Lord Temmu. Not the least suspicion could fall upon him. He is a man of exquisite honor. I would trust him with my life.”
“I am sorry,” said Tajima.
“You are mistaken,” I said. “You have misunderstood something. If there is a traitor in high places, it is surely Lord Okimoto, fat, sly, captious, suspicious, censuring, unpleasant, secretive Lord Okimoto, a bloated tarsk, cousin to the shogun, he who would have much to gain from treachery, he who is next in line for the shogunate.”
“Lord Okimoto,” said Tajima, “acquiesced in the ruse of the ritual knife.”
“So did Lord Nishida,” I said, heatedly.
“Lord Okimoto,” said Tajima, “has a beautiful hand. Have you never seen his calligraphy?”
“Do not be absurd,” I said.
“One cannot be evil who uses the brush so well,” said Tajima.
“If a rabid sleen could paint,” I said, “it might do quite as well.”
“I am sorry,” said Tajima.
“If there is a spy,” I said, “it is Lord Okimoto.”
“No,” said Tajima. “It is Lord Nishida.”
“You saw Lord Nishida on the parapet, and saw him cast a note, or something, to the valley below?” I said, angrily.
“Of course not,” said Tajima. “Lord Nishida is a daimyo. He would not go to the parapet, not without others. His absence, or presence, would be instantly noted.”
“A confederate then,” I said. “Who?”
Clearly Tajima was reluctant to speak.
“Who?” I demanded.
“Sumomo,” he said.
“Then,” I said, “she is the spy, or in league with the spy, or spies.”
“Yes,” said Tajima.
“This clears Lord Nishida of suspicion,” I said. “She acts independently, or, at least, independently of Lord Nishida.”
“No,” said Tajima.
“Why not?” I said.
“You do not understand, Tarl Cabot, tarnsman,” said Tajima. “You do not know our ways. She is a contract woman. Lord Nishida owns her contract. She serves him. She is not independent. She acts as she must, for him. It is our way. You do not know our ways. Lord Nishida is the spy.”
“I do not believe that,” I said.
“Why not?” he asked.
“I know him,” I said.
“And can you look into the hearts of men?” asked Tajima.
“I think so,” I said, “sometimes.”
“I see,” said Tajima.
“But you have done well,” I said. “We now know that Sumomo is at least involved in these matters.”
“I am sorry,” said Tajima.
“Why?” I asked.
“Because she is beautiful,” he said.
“So, too, is the small, venomous ost,” I said.
“One last thing I would speak,” said Tajima, “though I would not speak it.”
“Speak it,” I said.
“You have been relieved of your command, Tarl Cabot, tarnsman,” he said.
Chapter Twelve
I Hear of Bones, Shells, and Dragons;
Some Acquaintances Have Been Renewed
“She is beautiful, is she not,” he inquired.
“Yes, even slave beautiful,” I said.
“So beautiful?” he said.
“Yes,” I said.
“Her hair, and coloring, and the eyes,” he said, “are unusual for the islands.”
“That is my understanding,” I said. “She is a slave, is she not?”
“Of course,” he said.
The girl very carefully, holding her right sleeve back with her left hand, poured tea from the blue-and-white ceramic vessel into my tiny cup.
“I had her for a fukuro of rice,” he said.
“From the holding of Temmu,” I said.
“Of course,” he said.
“I wonder if she is worth a fukuro of rice,” I said.
The girl’s hand moved, tightened, a flicker of fury flashing across that fair face, but, almost instantly, it resumed its composure. Such indiscretions are not acceptable in a slave. Less may garner a lashing.
I was pleased to note her reaction. The collar does not diminish a woman’s vanity; indeed, it may increase it, perhaps to her surprise, for not every woman is found worth collaring. How well must one think of one’s femaleness when one finds it collared! The collar itself is a certification of quality, an emblem and testimonial, a warranty, that its occupant has been found of interest, that she is desirable enough to be chained at the foot of a master’s couch. She is a beast pleasant to own. Let her understand that. She is, of course, not a free woman and, accordingly, priceless. She does not exist in a reality irrelevant to, or innocent of, assessment. She is well aware that she is an object, a commodity, and that her value is as quantifiable, objectively, given market conditions and buyers, as that of other objects, or commodities, for example, in terms of coins, tarsks, sa-tarna, rice, or such. Two free women may each regard themselves as the superior of the other, each thinking herself more beautiful, more desirable, more exciting, than the other, but, if both were to be collared and placed on the block, well bared to buyers, as is appropriate for such goods, it is unlikely they would go for the same price.
“We had several, many, for so small a price,” he said, lifting his tea, regarding me over the rim of the cup.
“I have a friend named Pertinax,” I said. “I do not know if he would put out so much for her.”
“Pertinax!” she said, startled, softly.
“Beware speaking the name of a free man,” I said.
“Be careful, my dear,” he said to the slave. “Do not spill tea, even a drop.”
“Yes, Master,” she whispered, frightened
. There are consequences, of course, for clumsiness in a slave. She is not a free woman.
She backed away, with short steps, her hands now in her sleeves, her eyes cast down.
“Is she not overdressed?” I said.
Saru, the former Miss Margaret Wentworth, now far from the mahogany corridors of wealth and power, those which she had once frequented, in her small, manipulative way, in a far city on a distant world, wore a silken kimono, and obi, and figured sandals. Her hair was high on her head, and held in place by pins and an ornate comb. Her garmenture was not unlike that of the contract women I had seen in Tarncamp, in Shipcamp, in the holding, and elsewhere, such as Hana, Sumomo, Hisui, and others.
“Faraway,” he said, “across the shimmering breadth of Thassa, it is my understanding that slaves are dressed differently.”
“Commonly,” I said. “As the slave is an animal, she need not be dressed at all, of course. On the other hand, if her master chooses to permit her clothing, she is to be clothed as what she is, a slave. A rag or brief tunic is more than enough. Such a garment is designed not merely to make clear her beauty, and to make it clear that it is the beauty of a mere slave; it sets off, and even enhances, her beauty. In such a garment she is exhibited; in such a garment she is well displayed as the property she is. Such garments are intended to be provocative, and to leave little doubt as to what is concealed. Indeed, a suitable slave garment can make a woman seem more naked than if she were naked. The garment is little more than a mockery, and invites its removal. In such a garment a woman is in little doubt that she is a slave. She exists for labor and pleasure. Yet, interestingly, such trivial things, a rag or such, can be of desperate importance to the little beasts, and they will often beg for a scrap of cloth, and labor zealously to obtain it, and to retain it, if it is allowed to them.”
“It seems we can learn much from barbarians,” he said.
“You jest,” I said. “I have seen slaves about, and not merely barbarian slaves, collared, tunicked, and less.”
He smiled. “It is true,” he said, “we know what to do with women.”
“At least with slaves,” I said.
“With all women,” he said.
“But there are free women,” I said, “and contract women.”
