by John Norman
The ax bit the wood.
“Good stroke,” said Tyrtaios. “Many would take three to go that deep.”
“These logs,” I said, “are not being dressed.”
“Sawyers are elsewhere,” said Tyrtaios. “They will see to the shaping and fitting, the beams and planking.”
The heavy hauling was done in sturdy wagons, which left Tarncamp, and moved east by means of a narrow path through the forest. These wagons were drawn by draft tharlarion.
“At Shipcamp,” I said. I had not been there.
“Perhaps,” said Tyrtaios.
“Some,” I said, “say these are for a fort of wood.”
“In a way,” he said.
“We are far from the sea,” I said.
“Some days,” he said.
I struck the trunk, again. The shock moves through one’s whole body. After a time one’s body aches. One longs for the night. I had not come north for the service of a woodsman. Nor had many others, if any. Why, I wondered, had I come north? Yes, I thought, two golden staters, adventure, and what else was to be done? Surely there could be no other reason. There was much discontent in the camp. The wood of the Tur tree is closely grained. It is much easier to fell Needle Trees. Tharlarion, by means of tackle, would draw the logs to a clearing, where, by arranged hoists and pulleys, by hooks and counterweights, they would be lifted to the wagon beds. When it rained it took double teams of tharlarion to draw the wagons, which were often mired, sunk to the axles. I had occasionally been a member of work parties, put to the east road, to repair it for passage. But they had not let us too far down the road. Perhaps work parties came from another direction, to repair the more eastern stretches of the road. As far as I knew, they were not permitted far enough west to reach Tarncamp.
“I think you know more than you say,” I said.
“One must consider carefully those in whom one confides,” he said.
“True,” I said.
“There is a river,” I said.
“The Alexandra,” he said.
“You are building a fort at its head waters, for trading inland?” I asked. “There is a company? You will then barge furs down river to Thassa?”
“Perhaps,” he said.
Again I struck the trunk.
Some yards away four fellows, two on each handle, were working with a large, two-handled, iron toothed saw. It is a heavy device. One saw the sawdust scatter with each clear motion of the blade. Sometimes the blade would be arrested in the wood.
I glanced at them. Then I said to Tyrtaios. “They cannot hear us,” I said.
“I suppose not,” he said.
“I am sure you have been to the other camp, Shipcamp,” I said. “It is said you have been even to the pavilion of Lord Okimoto.”
“Who said that?” he asked.
“One hears things,” I said.
“One pays one’s respects,” he said.
Lord Okimoto was a lord, or daimyo, of the Pani, whose headquarters were at Shipcamp. At Tarncamp, the lord, or daimyo, was a Lord Nishida. I had seen Lord Nishida about, commonly on tours of inspection. He was usually accompanied by Pani warriors, in their short robes, with the two swords, their hair pulled back and knotted behind the head. In his retinue, as well, were some fellows of the sort who had been recruited in Brundisium. It was by means of some of these that he usually communicated with the common mercenaries. There seemed to be formalities involved here with which I was unfamiliar, and even amongst the Pani themselves. I knew little or nothing of the other daimyo, Lord Okimoto. I had gathered that he had some sort of precedence and that Lord Nishida was expected to defer to him. Tyrtaios, at least, it seemed, had been as far as Shipcamp. Beyond the training area, Pani guards regulated traffic on the east road.
“I do not see why armsmen, or so many, were brought here for this work,” I said. “It is not work for armsmen, and you have far more than would be required to garrison a trade fort and police traffic on a river.”
“It would seem so,” said Tyrtaios.
“A great deal of timber has been moved eastward,” I said, “perhaps more than would be needed for a local trade fort, or the construction of barges.”
“Perhaps,” said Tyrtaios.
“One does not enlist a small army without purpose,” I said.
“Perhaps there is a purpose,” he said.
“I know of no cities in the vicinity,” I said, “no walls to raze, no palaces to pillage, no gold to seize, no trade routes to command, no women to collar.”
“Perhaps elsewhere,” he said.
“This is a wilderness,” I said.
“That is why we are here,” he said.
“Some venture, some project, is concealed here,” I said.
“Obviously,” he said.
I struck the trunk angrily, fiercely, three more times. Then I turned to face him. “What venture, what project?” I asked.
“I know little more than you,” he said.
“But more,” I said.
“Yes,” he said.
“You stand high,” I said. “It is said you have been admitted even to the pavilion of Lord Okimoto.”
He shrugged.
“You were known in Brundisium,” I said. “You were deeply involved in the recruiting. Seemingly you were feared. You gave me fee.”
“Two golden staters,” he said.
“High wages for a woodsman,” I said.
“I trust,” he said, “the staters will not prove to have been poorly invested.”
“I have received nothing more,” I said.
“Nor have the others,” he said, “as yet.”
“And where is the wealth, the silver, the jewels, the women, the gold?” I asked.
“Not here,” he said.
“Where?” I asked.
“Elsewhere,” he said.
“Stand clear,” I said.
He moved to the side.
“Beware,” I called, to any about.
Four more strokes, and there was a gross splintering, a breakage of wood, and the tree fell crashing to the earth, half obscured by a rising cloud of dust and leaping, shimmering leaves.
“You recruited me,” I said to Tyrtaios.
“I think you may prove useful,” he said.
“How so, more than another?” I asked.
“You have skills,” he said.
“Many could best me in the songs of steel,” I said.
“I do not think so many,” he said. “I could, Tarl Cabot, the commander of the tarn cavalry could, and doubtless several others, but not so many.”
I knew little of the tarn cavalry, though it had been formed, and was still being trained, in the vicinity. It did not seem to me that a large number of tarns would be necessary in patrolling a river, certainly not a cavalry of such.
“Two staters of gold,” I said, “is a high price for one sword.”
“Yes,” he said.
“Therefore,” I said, “more is involved.”
“Of course,” he said.
“This is the first time here,” I said, “that you have seen fit to seek me out.”
“I had not forgotten you,” he said.
“What is my fee intended to purchase?” I asked.
“A quick eye, a swift hand, of course,” he said.
“But more,” I said.
“Of course,” he said.
“My caste has something to do with these matters,” I said.
“Yours, and perhaps some others,” he said.
“I am a mere Merchant,” I said.
“A Slaver,” he said.
“A Merchant,” I said.
“I suppose,” said he, “it is merely a matter of the goods, of one sort or another, with which one deals.”
“Surely,” I said.
“But,” said he, “I would suppose the acquisition of some goods is more perilous than the acquisition of others, and that some goods are more pleasant, once acquired, to handle, enjoy, manage, process, and sell, than others.”<
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“Doubtless,” I said.
“One supposes,” he said, “one might expect courage from one of such a caste, perhaps a willingness, under certain conditions, to accept risks, perhaps serious risks, if the end in view might justify such an acceptance. One supposes one of such a caste must be able to plan, to follow through with plans, or, if it seemed wise, to depart from a plan, even suddenly, to change or alter plans, even to withdraw, and plan anew, that one such must be not only bold, but subtle and shrewd, that one such must understand the value of deception, of surprise, of patience, of discretion, of secrecy.”
“Perhaps you would care to speak to me,” I said.
“I may be here for such a purpose,” he said.
“So, speak,” I said.
“We expect loyalty,” he said.
“‘We’?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said.
“I have taken fee,” I said.
“And is not gold the best guarantor of fidelity?”
“Commonly,” I said.
“And of much else,” he said.
“Often,” I said.
“It is our expectation,” he said, “that you can guard a confidence, and might well discharge tasks to which you might be assigned.”
“Perhaps,” I said.
“And without demur,” said he, “without requesting, or demanding, reasons.”
“Perhaps,” I said.
“A Merchant,” said he, “is one concerned with profit.”
“Commonly,” I said.
“And there may be much profit,” he said.
“Excellent,” I said.
“I trust, of course,” he said, “that you are not a fool, one who harkens to myths and lies.”
“Myths and lies?” I said.
“For example,” he said, “those of honor.”
“It is my hope,” I said, “that I am not a fool.”
“You are familiar with the wands,” he said, “those about the perimeter of the camp.”
“Of course,” I said. “Their purpose was made clear to us, on the beach, and, later, in the camp.”
These were slender wands, a yard or so in height, planted in the soil, with a bit of cloth tied upon them. They occurred every several yards, or so. One was not permitted, without authorization, and accompaniment, to venture beyond the wands. The perimeter was patrolled by larls, usually released at night, which were trained to track, seek out, and fall upon any who might be so foolish or unwary as to have left the camp without authorization or accompaniment. The beasts responded to certain signals associated with food, which signals were changed from time to time. One was reasonably safe if one knew the signals. The beasts were occasionally brought in, even at night, their normal release time, if lanes were to be opened, for one reason or another. To be sure, few knew when the larls were to be released, whether during the day or at night, though, as suggested, the night release was more common, probably because desertions took place most frequently under the cover of darkness. Whereas I had heard them in the forest, on our column’s march to Tarncamp, I had not seen them. In any event, as far as I knew, our column had not been threatened. To be sure, we had kept to a particular trail, one, I had gathered, of several, and had been approaching, not attempting to exit, Tarncamp.
“My superior,” he said, “is troubled by one matter.”
“Who is your superior?” I asked.
“It is not necessary that you know,” he said.
“Lord Okimoto?” I asked.
“Perhaps,” he said, “perhaps not.”
“You came to speak,” I said.
“My superior,” he said, “has had you watched.”
“And perhaps others are watched, as well?” I said.
“Doubtless,” he said.
“And you amongst them?” I ventured.
“I would suppose so,” he said.
Many are the strands of intrigue, and a tremor in one strand, as in the web of the urt spider, is often registered in several others. Not unoften he who presumes himself a spy, secure in station and privileged in access, reporting upon others, is himself under suspicion. Is it not often the case that the first is concerned with the second, and the second with the third, and the third with the first, and in the center of all this, attending to the strands, rather like the urt spider itself, there is something which observes and waits. But here the web is invisible, and what observes and waits is unseen.
“Should I be flattered,” I asked, “that I might be watched?”
“That you are watched more than others?” he said.
“Yes,” I said. I knew the camp was tense. The men brought here were mostly mercenaries, strong, rough men, many of whom were fugitives from the forces which had garrisoned and exploited Ar. They expected, and were hungry for, the prizes of war. Among them, too, were thieves, brigands, and cutthroats, some of whose names and descriptions adorned the public boards in more than one city. Some of the higher sort had been collaborators in Ar, who had fled the city to avoid impalement. Several had mocked and forsworn Home Stones. Such men were dangerous. They had not come to the wilderness to weary themselves with prolonged, arduous tasks. In almost every case, it had been supposed that the silver stater which had brought them north was the harbinger of others to follow. But none had followed. There was much discontent in the camp. A weapon unsheathed by silver, when the silver is gone, remains unsheathed, and dangerous. Squabbles were frequent, over gambling, and slaves. Some had attacked Pani warriors, and had fared badly. I had heard of several desertions. Perhaps some were successful, but the remains of bodies had been frequently dragged to the camp. The jaws of more than one larl, returning to its housing in the morning, had been stained, dark with matted, dried blood. Some days ago there had been a failed attempt on the life of Lord Nishida, which attempt had been shortly followed by a presumably coordinated, large-scale attack on the camp, one beaten away, on the ground, by Pani and mercenaries, and in the air, by Lord Nishida’s tarn cavalry, commanded by the tarnsman, Tarl Cabot. I knew him only by reputation. His relationship to the Pani seemed obscure. It was said his sword was quick and his temper short. I supposed him an able officer. It was said some men would risk their life to serve under him. This made little sense to me. He was, of course, a tarnsman. Few men are such. Few dare the tarn, and, of those, many but once. It had become clear, after the attack, that this wilderness was not only a remote, miserable, dangerous venue in which we, far from civilization, were for most practical purposes incarcerated, and, under discipline, were put to manual tasks befitting the lower castes, but was, in addition, somehow involved in a project of such a nature that serious, determined forces were aligned against us, forces willing to destroy us and our work altogether. We not only did not like where we were and what we were doing, but we were at risk, as well, for no reason we understood, from the hostility of apparently numerous, formidable, skilled foes. We were in jeopardy, and knew not why. We knew not even what we were about. Two fellows had attempted to incite mutiny. They had been crucified. I had not fought in the attack on the camp, as I, with several others, in a work party, had been better than four pasangs from the camp, improving the east road, that allegedly leading to “Shipcamp,” presumably named for the barges being constructed there to descend the Alexandra to the coast.
“You have scouted the wands too frequently,” he said. “Perhaps you contemplate desertion.”
“No,” I said.
“Why do you remain?” he asked.
“Where there are two golden staters,” I said, “perhaps there are more.”
“Not for having taken fee, then, not for honor?” he asked.
“I fear there is little honor in this camp,” I said, “little here but the hope of gain, and the fear of the forest, and of death.”
“Things will change,” he said, “before ice closes the Alexandra.”
“I do not understand,” I said.
“Much begins here,” he said.
“But is n
ot to end here,” I said.
“Why do you frequent the wands?” he asked.
“Perhaps to prevent the escape of others,” I said.
“The Pani will attend to that,” he said, “and the beasts.”
“Might I not be rewarded,” I asked, “if I brought back, say, a fugitive slave?”
“The slaves are not stupid,” he said. “If they were, they would not have been collared.”
“Perhaps one,” I said, “even one of intelligence, might not realize the impossibility of escape.”
“Only a barbarian might be so naive,” he said.
“A barbarian, then,” I said.
“Female, marked, collared, half-naked, clad kajir?” he said.
“A possibility,” I said.
“More likely she would be stolen,” he said.
I supposed that so. There was, in effect, no escape for a female slave. Female slaves, recaptured, are commonly, as a matter of civility, returned to their masters for discipline. Some are doubtless picked up by others, to be sold or subjected to an even harsher slavery, as they were apprehended fugitives. There is, in effect, given the culture, nowhere to escape. It would be much the same with a strayed kaiila. The alternatives are not bondage or freedom, but what collar will be worn. Some slaves are tracked by sleen. This can be very unpleasant, particularly if she cannot reach the waiting cage in time.
“To be sure,” said Tyrtaios, “such a one might manage to pass the wands.”
“True,” I said. And then, one supposes, they would fall to the larls, or forest panthers, or forest sleen. They might even intrude inadvertently into the territory of a shaggy forest bosk, and be trampled or gored. Perhaps some might be apprehended by Panther Girls, and exposed on the coast, bound provocatively to stakes, to be sold to the crews of passing ships. But many, too, I supposed, might perish in the forest, due to the severity of elements, the scarcity of food.
“My superior,” he said, “would not consider seriously that your frequenting of the perimeters might be so generously and eccentrically motivated.”
“I like to be alone,” I said, “away from the camp.”
“Who would you expect to meet at the wands?” he asked.
“No one,” I said.
“If you were another,” he said, “you would have been killed by now.”