Mariners of Gor

by Norman, John;

  Such things are useful in the training of a slave.

  “Our physicians have determined,” said Lord Nishida, “that after her sojourn in your cell, she is almost ready to be put on the block.”

  “Interesting,” I said.

  “She was recently a free woman,” said Lord Nishida.

  “Oh?” I said.

  “Now, it seems,” he said, “she has begun to fear radical changes in her very being, changes she is not capable of resisting, changes such that a free woman may be replaced by a slave.”

  “She is a slave,” I said.

  “To her consternation and terror,” said Lord Nishida, “it seems that she has begun to sense what it might be to have slave fires in her belly.”

  “Interesting,” I said.

  “They have been lit,” said Lord Nishida.

  “I scarcely touched her,” I said.

  “The flames are tiny now,” said Lord Nishida, “but they will doubtless grow.”

  “That is common,” I said.

  “She will, of course,” said Lord Nishida, “fear them, and fight them, with all weapons of her pride and will.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  That battle, of course, once the fires have begun, cannot be won. Sooner of later the free woman is transformed into a needful slave, a submitted, begging, belonging of men.

  And, interestingly, it is a battle the woman does not want, truly, to win. Indeed her victory as a female lies in her utter and unconditional defeat as a contestant in that unnatural, strange war. She cannot be whole and fulfilled until she is true to the core of her being, that of lying at the feet of her master.

  “I have seen this Alcinoë,” said Seremides. “She looks well in her collar. Perhaps she might be given to me.”

  “Perhaps,” said Lord Nishida.

  That, I thought, would be the end of a slave.

  “If,” said I, “you feared survivors, who might warn those of Tyros or Cos of your presence, why did you not simply slay me, and cast me over the side of the galley?”

  “Do you think we are pirates?” asked Lord Nishida.

  “Yes,” I said.

  To be sure, the vessel itself would seem an impractical corsair, but I knew she sheltered at least one nested galley, which might plausibly exercise the dark vocation of the low, green ships.

  “Kill him,” said Seremides.

  “Are you prepared to deny your Home Stone?” asked Lord Nishida.

  “No,” I said.

  “Kill him,” said Seremides.

  “Have you anything of interest or importance to impart to us,” asked Lord Nishida.

  “I fear not,” I said.

  “No information as to ships and schedules, patrols, or such?”

  “Ours,” I said, “was the last patrol of the season. Thassa grows cold, and angry. I advise you to turn about and lay to port, if you have a port. This is no time to tempt the indulgence of Priest-Kings, no time to tempt the season, or the patience of Thassa. A galley of Tyros was to rendezvous with us, but that was days ago, and, if you are sailing to the farther islands, much to the east. The absence of the Metioche, of course, will be noted, and doubtless galleys will leave Telnus, searching for her, or her wreckage.”

  “But that, too, will be far to the east,” said Lord Nishida.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “He is useless to us,” said Seremides. He had slipped his short blade from its sheath. It had been a lovely draw, silent, and smooth. I had not noticed the draw until it was completed, the blade free of its housing. A distraction is involved. One looks to the side and the gaze of others is likely to follow this line, whilst the hand, meanwhile, unnoted, draws the blade. I wondered if Seremides had once trained with the Assassins.

  “Return your serpent to its lair,” said the tarnsman, not requesting permission to speak. I was reassured that there was no good feeling, obviously, between Seremides and the tarnsman.

  Seremides looked to Lord Okimoto, who nodded. The blade snapped back into the sheath, angrily.

  “Do you know weapons?” inquired Lord Nishida.

  “I was first spear,” I said, “of a squad of nine.”

  “It is my understanding,” said Lord Nishida, “that Cos is imperialistic.”

  “The laws of Cos,” I said, “march with the spears of Cos.”

  “That is a saying, is it not?” asked Lord Nishida.

  “Yes,” I said.

  I would not bend to diminish, nor cloud, the glory of Cos, but I did not regard her as unique amongst the communities of men. Surely violence, aggression, opportunism, territoriality, imperialism, and such, were not her exclusive possessions. Is the way of war not the way of men? Surely her spears were matched ever with spears, her blades with blades. Indeed, how is a state to wax great save by the spear, the blade? If this is the way of Cos, is it not also the way of Ar, Turia, and a hundred other cities? How are trade routes, cities, fields, mines, slaves, and such to be conveniently purchased save by steel? The larl rules his domain; he does not discuss it with the tabuk.

  “Tomorrow, friend Callias,” said Lord Nishida, “your fate will be decided. Tomorrow, you will live or die.”

  “My thanks,” I said.

  “Would you care to have a slave sent to your cell tonight?” asked Lord Nishida.

  “No,” I said.

  “I thought perhaps the girl, Alcinoë,” said Lord Nishida.

  “No,” I said.

  “She is pretty, is she not?” said Lord Nishida.

  “She is not a bad-looking slave,” I said.

  “But you do not want her sent to you tonight?” he said.

  “No,” I said. “I will sleep.”

  “As you will,” said Lord Nishida.

  “But I might,” I said, “like strong broth.”

  “It will be so,” said Lord Nishida.

  Chapter Five

  What Occurred on the Main Deck of the Great Ship;

  Tersites;

  A Storm is Imminent

  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, Alcinoë, 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 confid
ante, 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!”