Mercenaries of Gor

by Norman, John;

  “No thief so skilled, surely,” said Boabissia, “would be with the refugees.” She continued to regard the trembling Feiqa balefully. “It must have been the slave. Let her be tortured.”

  Feiqa moaned.

  “It could not have been Feiqa,” I said to Boabissia. “Last night her hands were secured,” I reminded her, “chained behind her back.”

  “Then who?” asked Boabissia.

  “Perhaps you,” said Hurtha, coming up behind Boabissia and holding her by the upper arms, from behind. His grasp, I gathered, was not gentle.

  “No,” said Boabissia. “No!” She squirmed. She was as helpless as a slave in Hurtha’s grip.

  “Perhaps it is you who should be put under torture,” growled Hurtha.

  “No, no!” said Boabissia. “I am free!”

  “It would not be impossible for a skilled thief to be with the refugees,” I said. “It would be necessary only that he, or she, had been turned out of Torcadino with other citizens.”

  “Do you know of such a person?” asked Hurtha.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Who?” asked Hurtha.

  “Wait here,” I said.

  “Who?” asked Hurtha.

  “One called Ephialtes, of Torcadino,” I said. “I was warned about him.”

  “Let me come with you,” he said. “I shall break his neck.”

  “That will not recover the letters,” I said. “Wait here.”

  “Some of the carts, and many of the refugees, have already left,” said Boabissia, pulling free of Hurtha’s hands, he loosening his grip. She was shaking. She was not accustomed to having been so helplessly in the power of a man, as helplessly, it might seem, as might have been a slave.

  “Please, Mistress,” wept Feiqa. “I did not steal the letters. I could not have done so, even if I had dared to do so, which I would not in my life have dared to do. Do not ask to have Feiqa tortured. Please be kind to Feiqa.”

  “You are a slave,” snapped Boabissia, “and, as such, are subject to torture, or to whatever free persons desire to do to you.”

  “Yes, Mistress,” wept Feiqa, shuddering.

  “Wait here,” I said.

  Boabissia made as though to accompany me, but Hurtha’s hand on her arm stayed her.

  * * * *

  “Aii!” cried the fellow, startled, in pain. My hand had closed on the back of his neck. I then forced him to his knees, and then to his belly. He squirmed. I thrust his nose and mouth into the soft earth. Instantly he was quiet. I permitted him to lift his head a little. He coughed and gasped.

  “Where are they?” I asked him.

  “What?” he said, wildly, spitting out dirt.

  “The letters, three of them,” I said.

  “You cannot rob me here,” he said. “There are too many about!”

  To be sure, some of the refugees had gathered about us. “Do not interfere,” I warned them.

  “Where are the letters?” I demanded.

  “What letters?” he asked.

  I again thrust his face into the dirt. He coughed and spit, and twisted his head to the side, gasping.

  “Where are they?” I demanded.

  “I know nothing of letters,” he gasped.

  “Do not interfere,” I warned those about. More than one of them carried heavy clubs.

  I then, with a length of binding fiber, extracted from my pouch, tied his ankles together, and then fastened his hands to his ankles. He turned to his side. I then, methodically, began to go through his belongings.

  “What are you doing?” he asked. “Stop him,” he called to those about. A man or two took a step forward, but none challenged me.

  “He is armed,” said one of the fellows to the trussed captive.

  “I do not find them here,” I said to the crowd.

  “What is he looking for?” asked a fellow, just come up to the group.

  “Letters of some sort,” said a fellow to the newcomer.

  “Where are they?” I asked the captive, again.

  “I know nothing of your letters, or whatever they are,” he said. “Let me go!”

  “Let him go,” suggested a fellow in the crowd. To be sure he did not step boldly forth.

  “What do you think you are doing?” asked another fellow.

  “Let him go,” said another man. That one I saw.

  “This fellow,” I said to the crowd, “is a thief. He stole three letters from me. I mean to have them back.”

  “I am not a thief,” said the fellow.

  “Did you see him steal the letters?” asked a fellow.

  “No,” I said.

  “Did someone else, then?” asked another.

  “No,” I said, irritably.

  “How do you know he took them then?” asked a fellow. It seemed a fair question.

  “You have not recovered the letters from him,” said another. “Does that not suggest that you might be mistaken?”

  I opened the fellow’s pouch. It contained coins, but there were no letters within it.

  I poured the coins back into the pouch, and pulled shut its drawstrings.

  “Where have you hidden the letters?” I asked the fellow. My voice was not pleasant.

  “I do not know anything about your letters,” he whispered. I think he had little doubt that I was in earnest. He was frightened.

  “Have you sold them already?” I asked.

  “I do not know anything about them,” he said. “Are you not a thief?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Release him,” said a man.

  “You have no proof,” said another.

  “He has a sword,” said a man. “He does not need proof.”

  “Let the fellow go,” said another man.

  “He is a thief,” I said, angrily.

  “I am not a thief,” said the fellow.

  “He is not a thief,” said another man.

  “He is a well-known thief from Torcadino,” I said.

  “Nonsense,” said a man.

  “Who do you think he is?” asked another fellow.

  “Ephialtes, of Torcadino,” I said.

  “I am not Ephialtes,” said the man.

  “He is not Ephialtes,” said another fellow.

  “He has been so identified for me, days ago,” I said.

  “And who made this identification?” asked a fellow.

  “I do not now see him about,” I said.

  “That is not Ephialtes,” said a man.

  “Even if it were,” said another fellow, “you apparently did not see the theft, and do not have clear evidence, even of a circumstantial nature, that he is the culprit.” The fellow who had said this wore the blue of the scribes. He may even have been a scribe of the law.

  “Release him,” suggested another fellow.

  “I am Philebus, a vintner, of Torcadino,” said the man.

  “He is lying,” I said.

  “That is Philebus,” said a man. “I have dealt with him.”

  “Release him,” said a man.

  I untied the fellow. “Put your things back in your pack,” I said. I watched him do this. The pack might have had a false lining. Still I had not felt the resistance of letters, nor heard the sound of paper from it, when I had tested it.

  “Cart Seventeen is ready to leave!” I heard called.

  “That is my cart,” said the fellow, thrusting the last of his various articles, strewn about, into the pack.

  “It is mine, too, as well you know,” I said. “Do not fear. I shall accompany you to the cart and see that you board safely.” I had no intention of letting him out of my sight. Although I had no proof of the sort which might convince a praetor I was confident that it was Ephialtes of Torcadino who had stolen the letters. It was ironic. I had ridden in the very cart with him.

  “We are ready to go,” said Boabissia coming up to me. “The cart is going to leave.”

  “I know,” I said. “I heard. Go along, you.” I thrust the fellow before me, tow
ard the carts.

  * * * *

  I stood near the front railing of the cart. I did look back to make sure the fellow was still on the bench where I had placed him. “That is the checkpoint ahead?” I asked the driver, as I leaned over the railing.

  “Yes,” he said, lifting his head and speaking back over his shoulder. “You will all get out here, and those who pass will board again, on the other side. There are no refunds, if you do not pass. Such failures are not the responsibility of the company.”

  “We are only a day from Ar,” said a fellow.

  “There is the barrier,” said another, coming to stand beside me at the railing.

  “Look,” said another, joining us. “Look at that poor sleen.” He indicated a small figure near the checkpoint, impaled on a high pole, lifted some twenty feet above the heads of the refugees.

  “Among the crowds there,” I said, suddenly, pointing, “there are soldiers with purple cloaks and helmets.” I had not seen such things in years, since the time of the usurper, Cernus, in Ar, dethroned long ago in the restoration of Marlenus, ubar of ubars.

  “Those are Taurentians, members of the elite palace guard,” said a man.

  “The Taurentians were disbanded in 10,119,” I said.

  “They have been restored to favor,” said a man.

  “Had you not heard?” asked another.

  “No,” I said. The sight of Taurentians made me uneasy. Such men, with their internal esprit de corps, their identification with their own units, their allegiance to their personal commanders, their status, privileges and skills, their proximity to the delicate fulcrums of power, hold in their hands the power to enthrone and dethrone ubars.

  “It was done only this year,” said a man.

  “They are fine soldiers,” said another.

  “I know,” I said. I had met them in combat, as long ago as the sands of the Stadium of Blades. There is a common myth, given their post in the city, that Taurentians are spoiled, and soft. This myth is false. They are elite troops, highly trained and devoted to their commanders. One does not gain admittance to their coveted ranks in virtue of mediocre skills or poor condition. The current year was 10,130 C.A. In the chronology of Port Kar, it was Year 11 in the Sovereignty of the Council of Captains. Their captain, when I had known them long ago, had been Saphronicus of Ar. Seremides of Tyros, in those days, had been high general of Ar. He, appointed through the influence of Cernus, who was soon to ascend the throne of Ar, had replaced the venerated hero, Maximus Hegesius Quintilius of Ar, who had earlier expressed reservations concerning the investiture of Cernus, a merchant and slaver, in the caste of warriors. Maximus Hegesius Quintilius was later found assassinated in his own pleasure gardens, slain there by the bite of a chemically prepared poison girl, one killed by Taurentians before she could be questioned. Such an appointment, of course, that of one of Tyros to such a post, later would have been unthinkable, given the developing frictions between Ar and Cos, and her mighty ally, Tyros, frictions largely consequent upon competitions in the valley of the Vosk. After the defeat and deposition of Cernus, so briefly a ubar, I had seen both Saphronicus and Seremides in chains before Marlenus, then again upon the throne. They had both, with other high traitorous officers, been ordered to Port Kar, in chains, to be sold to the galleys.

  One of the figures in the purple cloak and helmet stood out from the others near the side of the road and lifted his hand.

  The driver pulled back on the reins of his tharlarion and the beast slowed, grunting. The high-wheeled fee cart halted.

  “Passengers alight and take your places in the line to the right,” said the driver. “I am going in the wagon line. Rejoin me on the far side of the barrier, in the wagon line.” He had been here before.

  “How will we be able to pass?” whispered Boabissia, whom I helped down, through the cart gate. “You no longer have the letters.”

  “I am not sure,” I said. “But surely most of the folks here do not have letters.” I kept my eye on the fellow who had called himself Philebus, claiming to be a vintner of Torcadino. I had no intention of letting him out of my sight. If letters were required, and he presented those stolen from me, I would find that of interest. I would also, when the opportunity presented itself, an opportunity which I would see to it would present itself, break his arms and legs.

  “Waiting, waiting,” complained Hurtha. “I think that I shall compose a poem on the insolencies of bureaucracy.”

  “A good idea,” I said.

  “Done!” he said.

  “Done?” I asked.

  “It is a short poem,” he said. “Would you care to hear it?”

  “It must be quite short,” I said.

  “Yes,” said Hurtha.

  “I would be pleased to hear it,” I said, keeping my eyes on the so-called Philebus.

  “‘Lines, lines, lines, lines, lines, lines, lines,’” began Hurtha.

  “Wait,” I said. “There is only one word in the poem?” I began to suspect I had penetrated the secret of the poem’s swift completion.

  “No,” said Hurtha, “already there are more than a half dozen. Count them. ‘Lines, lines, lines, lines, lines, lines, lines.’”

  “Yes,” I said, “you are right.”

  The lines moved forward a few feet. I kept my eyes on the so-called Philebus.

  “‘Lines, lines, lines, lines, lines, lines, lines, lines,’” said Hurtha.

  “You are starting again?” I asked.

  “No,” he said, “I am picking up from where I left off. Do you really want to hear this poem?”

  “Yes, of course,” I said. I began to suspect that certain basic civilities, hitherto regarded as largely innocent, retained from my English upbringing, might not be wholly without occasional disadvantages.

  “Then do not interrupt,” said Hurtha.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “‘Those lines, lines, lines, lines, lines, lines, lines are very long, those long lines, lines, lines, lines, lines, lines, lines.’”

  “Yes, they are,” I granted him.

  “What?” asked Hurtha.

  “Those lines,” I said, “they are pretty long.”

  “Yes,” agreed Hurtha, somewhat suspiciously. “Please do not interrupt.”

  “Sorry,” I chuckled. After all, how often does a common fellow like myself get a chance to put one over on a poet.

  “You are quite a wit,” observed Boabissia.

  “Thank you,” I said. But, from the tone of her voice, I suspected her compliment was not to be taken at face value. I think she was prejudiced somewhat by her affection for the stocky larl, Hurtha. I did not think it was to be explained by her love of poetry. I did glance back at Feiqa. She was smiling. She was obviously of high intelligence. Then, observing herself the object of my scrutiny, she put down her head, quickly, even more humbly than was perhaps required under the circumstances. After all, her neck was in a collar.

  “Be pleased that Hurtha does not strike you to the ground with a heavy blow,” said Boabissia.

  “I am pleased,” I said. “I am pleased.”

  “If I may continue,” said Hurtha.

  “Please,” I said.

  “‘Those long lines, lines, lines, lines, lines, lines, lines, they make me tired, those long lines, lines, lines, lines, lines, lines, lines,’” said Hurtha.

  I could believe it. But I refrained from comment.

  “‘I do not like them, those long lines, those long lines, lines, lines, lines, lines, lines, lines,’” said Hurtha.

  “Is that it?” I asked.

  “That is the first verse,” said Hurtha. “Also, I am catching my breath.”

  “I thought you said it was a short poem,” I said.

  “You need not listen if you do not wish to,” said Hurtha. “I can recite it to Boabissia.”

  “No, no,” I said. “I just thought you said it was a short poem.”

  “It was, when I said that,” he said. “But I have since expanded it.
Does the subject matter not seem worthy to you of a more substantial treatment?”

  “Of course,” I said.

  Our own lines moved forward a few steps.

  “You do not like it?” asked Hurtha.

  “It is wonderful,” I said. “It is only that I am not sure that it is as wonderful as many of your other poems.”

  “What is wrong with it?” he asked.

  “It seems to me perhaps a bit long,” I said. “Also, it may be a bit repetitious.”

  “‘Repetitious’?” he asked, in disbelief.

  “Yes,” I said. For example, with respect to the word ‘lines’.” I kept my eye on the fellow before me, the so-called Philebus, he who claimed to be a vintner from Torcadino.

  Hurtha burst out laughing and, tears in his eyes, seized me by the arms. I kept an eye on the so-called Philebus, lest he take this opportunity to take to his heels.

  “My poor, dear sweet friend,” said Hurtha. “How simple you are, dear friend! How little you know of poetry! The length is deliberate, of course, constituting an implicit allegory of interminability, manifesting and conveying in no uncertain manner, but in one which perhaps you have not as yet fully grasped, the withering tedium of the bureaucratic assault on the spirit and senses of man!”

  “Oh,” I said.

  “Too, similarly pungent and subtle is the recurrent emphasis on the expression ‘lines’, which, on a level and in a dimension to which I have hopes you may yet attain, forcefully enunciates and clarifies not only the concept but more significantly the emotional significance of lines, those inevitable attributes, attaining in themselves an almost symbolic grandeur, of the perfidious bureaucratic infection.”

  “I see,” I said.

  “May I now continue?” he asked.

  “Please, do,” I said. I was so overawed by Hurtha’s exposition that the so-called Philebus might then have slipped away unnoticed, but when I checked he had not done so. He did not wish to lose his place in line, it seemed. I decided that I, as a simple soldier, an unpretentious fellow devoted to the profession of arms, had best reserve judgment on such things as poets and poetry. It was dangerous, weighty stuff. I felt a sudden twinge of jealousy for Hurtha. He was both a warrior and a poet.