by John Norman
Captain Nakamura, one gathers, a man of refinement, if not the stranger, appeared to recognize and appreciate the nature and quality of this homely amenity. Many of the high Pani, I am told, are sensitive to beauty, to matters of artistry and grace, even in small things, such as the serving of tea, the arrangement of flowers.
The two blades were soon cleaned and returned to their respective housings. The stranger, being right-handed, ran his sheath strap from his right shoulder to his left hip, so the blade was at his left hip. Before he met Cineas he had removed both the strap and sheath, for such things may be seized. When danger is imminent the strap is usually, for a right-handed swordsman, simply put loose over the left shoulder, where, in a moment, the blade drawn, the belt and sheath may be held, as the stranger did, or, as is often the case, discarded altogether, to be retrieved later, this being permitted by the outcome of the encounter.
“We have accomplished much, successfully, noble Callias,” said Captain Nakamura. “We have journeyed to the World’s End, Brundisium, we have founded a trade route, we are in the process of obtaining much needed goods for our shogun, Lord Temmu, we have foiled, or meddled in, the plot of the traitor, Tyrtaios, have perhaps saved your life, and, in any event have deprived him of his agent, Cineas, and we have conveyed to you greetings, those of Lord Nishida and Tarl Cabot, the tarnsman.”
“I wish you well,” said the stranger, Callias, to the captain, Nakamura, of the ship, the River Dragon.
I would have thought they might then have clasped hands, hand to hand, or, perhaps, exchanged with one another the mariner’s clasp, hand to wrist, wrist to hand, but, instead, the stranger bowed to Captain Nakamura, and he, in turn, returned the bow. This seemed to me rather cool, rather formal, but in it was clearly expressed, I sensed, much respect.
“What will you do now, noble Callias?” inquired Captain Nakamura. “What are your are your plans, when we sail?”
“I would sail with you, of course, to return,” said the stranger.
“That is not possible,” said the captain.
“I must!” said the stranger.
“You have enemies amongst those who would have deserted,” said the captain. “Your interference at the gate will be recalled. We could not guarantee your safety from such men, even at the castle.”
“It is a risk I accept, a risk I welcome,” said the stranger.
“I fear,” said the captain, “matters are far more serious.”
“I do not understand,” said the stranger. He was much agitated. I had not understood the gravity of his determination to return to such a far, strange, and dangerous place, the World’s End.
Would one not rather strive to avoid a resumption of that perilous journey, at all costs?
What sort of men would dare to journey to the World’s End?
“You would be killed,” said the Captain. “Lords Temmu and Okimoto would see to it, for your part in stealing the great ship.”
“They would have destroyed it!” said the stranger.
“Yes,” said the captain, “and you were instrumental in foiling that design. Do you think that would be forgotten?”
“I was not alone!” he said.
“Tarl Cabot is important to the tarn cavalry,” said the captain. “I fear his men would die for him. It would be very dangerous to dispose of him, and, worse, presumably unwise. He may be needed. And Lord Nishida is a daimyo, with villages, rice fields, peasants, and ashigaru. He is respected by a hundred minor daimyos, and important in significant diplomacies, maintaining precarious neutralities amongst those who might lean to Lord Yamada, and perhaps, eventually, he might prove significant in the enlistment of allies.”
“And Callias,” said the stranger, bitterly, “has no such weight, no such power.”
“Certainly not,” said the captain.
“One who steals a sul may be mutilated, crippled, or killed,” said Callias, “whereas one who steals cities may be gifted with the medallion of a Ubar.”
“Or the throne of a shogun,” said the captain.
“I must go, in any event,” said the stranger.
“I will give you no berth,” said the captain.
“Why?”
“I have given my word on the matter,” said the captain.
“How so?” asked the stranger. “To whom?”
“To Lord Nishida, and Tarl Cabot, the tarnsman,” said the captain.
“But you have conveyed their greetings!” he said. “Are they not well disposed toward me?”
“More so than you realize,” said the captain.
“I do not understand, I do not understand,” said the stranger.
“Why is it so important to you?” inquired the captain, politely.
The stranger seemed about to speak, but he did not speak. He turned away.
“I fear,” I said, “Captain, that the matter has to do with a slave.”
“No, no!” said the stranger.
“A slave?” said the captain.
“I fear so,” I said.
“Ah!” said the captain, suddenly. “I had forgotten.”
The stranger turned to face him.
“Forgive me,” said the captain. “It had slipped my mind, doubtless in the press of circumstances, arranging matters with the harbor master, renting space, organizing goods, supervising trading, and such.”
“What had you forgotten?” asked the stranger.
“Lord Nishida and Tarl Cabot, the tarnsman,” said the captain, “have included with their greetings to you, a gift, as well.”
“I need no gift,” said the stranger, ruefully, bitterly.
“Do you refuse it?” asked the captain.
“I thought they were my friends,” said the stranger.
“Is it to be returned?” asked the captain.
“Certainly not,” I said.
“No,” said the stranger, wearily. “I am not so boorish. If they are not my friends, yet I am theirs. I would not so insult them.”
“I would like to sail with the tide, in the morning,” said the captain, “if our business can be finished here tonight.”
“The warehouse will remain open, until late,” I said. “And surely another day or two will not matter.”
“A day may matter,” said the captain. “One does not know.”
“You wish to sail as soon as possible?” I asked.
“As soon as is compatible with our business here,” said the captain.
“You hope to sail tomorrow?” I said.
“With the tide,” he said.
“Time is short, then,” I said.
“We will have it so,” said the captain.
“Accept then the gift, and have done with it,” I said to the stranger, “for the captain is much engaged.”
“I do not want it,” said the stranger.
“But you will accept it,” I said.
“Yes,” said the stranger, looking toward the tables.
“Where is the gift?” I asked.
“It,” said Captain Nakamura, pointing, “is in a back room, there, behind that door. We did not put it on the floor as it is a gift, and not for immediate sale.”
“But perhaps for later sale?” I said.
“Of course,” said the captain.
“I would return to the World’s End,” said the stranger. “That they, Lord Nishida and Tarl Cabot, whom I have served, and well I trust, in whose regard I putatively stand, would deny me that, is unconscionable.”
“They do not want you to die,” I said.
“They deny me the world, which they could easily grant, and send me instead, the sop of a gift,” he said, angrily.
“I do not think they meant you harm, nor insult,” I said. “Accept it, and then, if you wish, rid yourself of it, in anger.”
“I do not want it!” he said.
“They sent you greetings,” I said, “from the World’s End.”
“I do not want it!” he said.
“You may dispose of it, sell i
t,” I said.
“I do not want it!” he said.
“Very well,” I said. “Look upon it, and then leave it.”
“Follow me,” said Nakamura, captain of the River Dragon, who then began to move amongst the tables, toward the back of the room. In a moment, he had reached the door he had earlier indicated, opened it, and stood beside it, not entering.
“Captain, noble captain,” called Demetrion, harbor master in Brundisium, from several yards away, lifting his hand. “Your mark is required.”
“Will you excuse me?” said Captain Nakamura to the stranger and me, and, after bowing, went to join Demetrion.
Many Goreans, particularly of the lower castes, and some of the Warriors, a high caste, cannot read. Literacy is accepted in the lower castes, but not encouraged. There are Peasants who have never seen a written word. Some Warriors take pride in their inability to read, regarding that skill as unworthy of them, as being more appropriate to record keepers, tradesmen, clerks, and such, and some who can read take pains to conceal the fact. Swords, not words, rule cities, it is said. And some Goreans feel that reading is appropriate only for the less successful, those too poor to have their reading done for them, their letters written for them, and such. Slaves, unless formerly of high caste, are often illiterate. And barbarian slaves are seldom taught to read. This produces the anomaly that many barbarian slaves, who are generally of high intelligence, will be literate in one or more of the barbarian languages, but illiterate in Gorean. Indeed, they are often kept so, deliberately, that they may be all the more helpless, as slaves, and know themselves all the better as mere slaves. Needless to say, all members of my caste, even from childhood, are taught to read. How can one be fully human without the dignity, glory, and power of the written word? Is it not to the world what memory is to the individual? By its means words spoken long ago and faraway may once more be heard. By the magic of such marks, the sorcery of small signs, we converse with those we have never met, touch dreams we could not otherwise share, at a glance rekindle flames which first burned in distant hearts. How else might one hear the tones of distant trumpets, the tramp of vanished armies, ford rivers where now lies cracked earth, witness distant sunsets, and stand wondering on the shores of vanished seas? Pani warriors, those of the high Pani, so to speak, I learn from the stranger, are almost all literate. It is not regarded as demeaning for them. Indeed, some take great pleasure in reading, as others might in music, or conversation. Indeed, it is not unusual for a Pani warrior to compose songs, and poetry.
Demetrion had spoken of Captain Nakamura’s “mark,” as though he might have been illiterate. This misunderstanding was based on the fact that the Pani transcribe their Gorean in their own way, with their own characters, as do many in the Tahari region. There is a single Gorean language, but it may be transcribed in different ways. A consequence of this is that two individuals might converse easily, while, at the same time, finding one another’s written discourse unintelligible.
As the captain had indicated the door, and opened it, I took it that one was free to enter the room. Curious, I did so.
The room was perhaps some twenty-feet square, with a smooth flooring of dark, polished wood. The walls were white. Two narrow, barred windows, set some eight feet from the floor, admitted light, rather as the windows in the general trading area.
There was only one object in the room.
I turned about, toward the door, for I had expected the stranger to be behind me, but I did not see him.
I went to the door, and looked out, into the general area. He was a few feet away, his back turned.
When I had entered the room, the object had stirred, as it could, aware that the door had been opened, and that someone had entered the room.
“Ho!” I called to the stranger, from the door.
He did not turn, though he had doubtless heard me.
I turned back, to the room.
I had seldom seen a woman tied more pathetically, or helplessly. The Pani, I gathered, well knew how to bind a female. I wondered if, in some sense, she could be important. There was not the least possibility of her escaping. She would remain as she was, wholly helpless, at the mercy of any who might find her. I moved the long Pani tunic up, on her left side, to the hip. I saw then that I was mistaken; she was not important. She was well marked, with the kef. She was then only a slave. I replaced the tunic so that, as before, the hem was across her ankles. I myself liked a shorter tunic on a slave, as the legs and thighs of a chattel are exciting. Also, the shorter tunic helps her to better understand that she is a slave.
I regarded Callias’ gift.
The Pani had tied her kneeling, and bent tightly over. Her head was down, to the floor, and was held in place, in slave humility, by a short, taut cord which ran from her collar back, under her body, to her small, crossed, thonged ankles. In this way any pressure is at the back of the neck, away from the throat. Her small wrists were also crossed, and thonged together behind her back. She was, thus, cruelly and tightly bent over, a small, compact, nicely curved, well-tethered, attractive bundle of slave meat. She had also been blindfolded and gagged.
I again regarded her.
She was totally helpless, and unable to either see or speak.
I went again to the door, and again addressed the stranger. “Ho!” I called. “Come and see your gift!”
He then turned, though I fear reluctantly. Indeed, I had feared he might have left the warehouse.
“What is it?” he called.
“I fear it is negligible,” I said. It was, after all, only a slave.
“Good,” he said.
He had been denied passage on the River Dragon, which had been of desperate importance to him. What then might compensate him for a loss so grievous? A valuable gift would have been, under the circumstances, cruel, or insulting. A negligible gift thus, at least, demonstrated that Lord Nishida and Tarl Cabot understood and respected his feelings, acknowledging, in this way, the accepted disparity involved, that the values involved were incommensurable.
He approached the door, and I stood aside.
He stopped within the threshold. He stood still, there, as though shocked, as in disbelief. He put a hand to the door jamb, on his right, suddenly striking it, to steady himself. He wavered. I feared, for a moment, his knees would buckle. Was this the man, I asked myself, who had faced mutineers, who had stood before a gate at the World’s End? He trembled. He tried to speak. No words emerged. He shook his head, twice, as though to assure himself that what he saw was real.
“Are you well?” I asked. “What is wrong?”
He did not respond to me.
“You need not accept it,” I said, “but I think it would be churlish not to do so. When the ship is gone, which will apparently be soon, sell it. It is your right.”
“Can it be?” he said. “Can it be!” he cried.
“No one would blame you,” I said. “Not Lord Nishida nor Tarl Cabot.”
“Aii!” he cried out, suddenly, and flung himself on his knees, beside the object, his dagger free.
“Do not kill it!” I cried, alarmed.
I seized his arm, holding it.
“Do not be enraged!” I said. “Do not take your disappointment out on the slave. She is innocent! She is only a slave. See, she is bound! She is blindfolded! She is gagged! She can help nothing!”
I struggled to hold his arm.
I could not determine if he were laughing, or crying.
“Innocent?” he cried. “A slave, innocent! See her beauty! You say she can help nothing! Every movement, every wisp of her hair, is guilty! Her ankles, her wrists, her bosom, her eyes, her lips, her feet, her hands, each quarter hort of her, each bit of her, each particle of her is guilty! Innocent? A slave, innocent! Does her beauty not wrench the heart of a man! Might not her smile slay with the swiftness of a quarrel? Is her touch not more dangerous than that of the ost? Does she not make a man helpless! Might she not conquer with a whisper, a caress? A kiss m
ight breach the walls of a city, overturn the thrones of Ubars! What net, what web, can compare with her laughter?”
“Do not be concerned,” I said. “They are animals, she-sleen! Keep them in collars. Hold the whip over them. They understand the collar, the lash! It is a question of who will be master. They crave strength, not weakness! Freed they are the bitterest and most frustrated, the subtlest and slyest of enemies. In their collars, they are content, appetitious, desirable, grateful, and fulfilled. They find the wholeness of their joy only when they are choiceless, and mastered. Men seek their slaves, and women their masters.”
He pulled his arm away from me, and the dagger swiftly parted the cord that held her head down, fastened to her feet.
Her eyes must have been wild, open, but unable to see anything, blocked in the darkness of the blindfold. She made tiny, helpless, piteous, desperate noises, scarcely detectable outside the sturdiness of the gag, its tight, encircling leather perimeters.
The Pani had done their work well.
The slave could neither see nor speak.
“Kneel her up,” I said. “What does her collar say?”
As the collar was light, it seemed to me likely that it was a private collar, not a public collar, not, say, a ship’s collar.
“Read it,” he said.
“I cannot read Pani script,” I said. I had seen samples of it amongst the trading tables.
“You can read it,” he said.
“Ah!” I said.
I could indeed read it.
“It is in familiar Gorean,” I said.
“Tarl Cabot,” he said.
“But the gift, surely,” I said, “is from Lord Nishida.”
“Yes,” said the stranger. “He is a daimyo.”
The collar read as follows: “I am Alcinoe. I belong to Callias, of Jad.”
“It was for this,” I asked, “that you would have ventured to the World’s End, for this, a mere slave?”
“Yes,” he said, “for this, a mere slave.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
A Scribe Concludes an Account
“Wine, Master?” said my slave.
