“I do not understand,” I said.
“Our mariners, and armsmen,” he said, “have spent days here, accumulating treasure.”
“So?” I said.
“Would it not cost blood to deny them their gold?” asked Cabot.
I remembered the mutiny.
“I think so,” I said.
“Lord Nishida thinks we are being held in place,” he said, “whilst a fleet is moving toward us.”
“There is no escape from here,” I said, and I swept my hand toward the horizon.
“Clearly some have failed to escape,” said Cabot.
“There is no hope,” I said.
“Consider the derelicts you have seen,” said Cabot. “None is larger than a medium-class galley, and none is oared.”
“True,” I said. It seemed so to me, at any rate, from what I had seen.
“And the ships are merchant ships, apparently, and, one supposes, would be crewed accordingly, with complements sufficient to the vessel, and perhaps little beyond that.”
“So?” I said.
“I see no large ships here,” said Cabot. “A large ship, with many in the crew, could work the vines, even over days, or weeks, cutting a path. Too, a large ship, with the force of the wind in her sails, might tear herself loose.”
“I find that hard to believe,” I said.
“A fresh wind,” he said, “might clear the air.”
I noted, again, the perfume of the garden, so sweet, pervasive, and heavy. I wondered if it did not have its role to play in this strange place. I could see two other derelicts from where I stood, smothered in flowers. “The flowers are beautiful,” I said.
“And perhaps deadly,” said Cabot.
“A slow poison?” I said.
“Let us hope not,” he said.
Two men had thrown themselves from the bulwarks of the great ship, screaming, into the vines below.
Men had looted one another’s sea chests openly, and then died in the corridors and companionways.
Two warriors of the Pani, which groups had not participated in the looting, had slain one another, which, given the custom of their discipline, was unthinkable.
“We cannot wait here indefinitely,” said Cabot.
“We must try to break free?” I said.
“Why has it not been attempted?” asked Cabot.
“The looting, the danger?” I said.
“The looting was done, days ago,” said Cabot, “at least of the ships conveniently accessible.”
“The flowers?” I said.
“I think so,” said Cabot.
“They are beautiful,” I said.
“Yes,” said Cabot. “They are beautiful.” He then went to the rail, and lowered himself to the waiting ship’s boat, and I followed him.
Chapter Fourteen
The Tharlarion;
Two Galleys are Lost;
I Find Myself Alone with Seremides
Oars snapped, and the small galley, the large glistening body rising under it, tipped fearfully to port.
She was one of the six nested galleys, normally housed in the hull of the great ship.
Water poured over the bulwarks. I stood at the oar which I shared with a fellow from Turmus, Licinius Lysias.
The large body, rolling beside us in the water, was almost as large as the galley itself. It turned away from us suddenly, its arched spine high above the water, and buffeted the galley which lay to starboard. There a fellow, cursing, jabbed down at it with a spear. There was a snort of pain and the large form was gone. The blade of the spear was awash with blood.
That would bring the sharks lurking beneath the vines, which extended some yard or two beneath the water.
Our galley, and the other, rocked back to an even keel.
All six galleys were forward of the great ship, like a mountain behind us. From each galley there looped two stout ropes back to the ship.
Before us was a cloud of small ship’s boats, filled with oarsmen and armsmen, attacking the vines.
The sails of the great ship behind us hung loose, scarcely stirring.
Looking back I could see a tarn against the bright sky.
Eleven days now we had been at the oars.
With tarns we were muchly advantaged. Without them small boats would have had to scout the Vine Sea to find its nearest edge. It had not been visible from the foremast. Oddly enough we had had a considerable change in course, in seeking open water. Some said that the Vine Sea had shifted in its restlessness, extending its blossomed tentacles, and that what had been nearest was no longer nearest, and that a new tortuous route must be now devised before one might reach the open sea, but others said that sails had been seen afar, and it was that, and that alone, which had dictated our new course.
Two spare oars were set in place to starboard, and we transferred two oars, as well, from port to starboard, one of which was manned by myself and Licinius Lysias. I could see the galley to starboard, some yards away. It was captained by Seremides. I recalled my mates of the Metioche. He had returned none to the great ship. Our galley was captained by the warrior Pertinax, a friend, it seemed, of the commander of the tarn cavalry, Tarl Cabot. This Pertinax, with some others, was a student of the taciturn swordsman, Nodachi, of whom I knew little. I had seen him at the time of the mutiny. I had also seen him at times on the open deck, sitting cross-legged, immobile, staring forward, for long periods, an Ahn or two at a time. And then, sometimes, he would rise to his feet, remove his two curved blades from his sash, and engage unseen opponents. I thought him insane, but I would not have cared to meet him in the business of war.
“Pull, pull!” screamed Seremides, and I saw his knotted rope fall, again and again, amongst his oarsmen. I did not care for this. How was it that they did not rise up, did not object? They were not slaves, chained to their benches. They were free men. Why did they not rise up and attack him? Because, I supposed, he was Seremides. He may have wanted to be attacked, for it was long since his sword had tasted blood. It may have been thirsty for that sudden, bright, exhilarating draught. The thick ropes jerked tight, leading back to the great ship. He should coordinate his efforts with the draw of the companion galley, ours. Was he so importunate and impatient, or was he, rather, anxious to intimidate our captain, Pertinax, the friend of Tarl Cabot? Certainly there were few whom the sword of Seremides, former master of the Taurentians, could not render diffident and complaisant. All feared him, save perhaps Tarl Cabot. Seremides had requisitioned me for his crew, but Cabot had assigned me to that of his friend, Pertinax. Again and again, to my right, across the yards between the galleys, the rope fell. I am not sure that I would have accepted the blows of Seremides. And that, I supposed, was why he had requested that I be assigned to him, that I might rise up, attack him, and then be slain for insubordination. Well would he have been within the rights of his captaincy. Discipline demands that one endure and obey, but it is not always easy to do. I supposed I would have accepted the blows. Yes, I would have accepted the blows. I guessed that Seremides, who knew my fear of him, knew that, but, still, he would have derived some satisfaction in their administration. He had little to fear, given his sword, and his standing with Lord Okimoto.
Amongst the slashed, trailing vines between the galleys, sometimes entangling the oars, I saw, occasionally, the dorsal fin of a shark, briefly emergent, then whipping again beneath the water. Usually the fin disappears gracefully, slipping from sight, but the creature was excited. I recalled the tharlarion, struck earlier. There would linger ribbons of blood in the water. The shark of the Vine Sea, though nine-gilled like his cousins of the shorelines and tropics, is sinuous and eel-like, which, I suppose, facilitates its movements amongst the vines. Suddenly, ahead, some twenty yards, between the galleys and the numbers of ship’s boats, the gigantic body of the wounded tharlarion emerged, its vast body, neck, head, and wide paddlelike appendages running with water, bright in the sunlight. It bellowed with pain, and dived again. “Back oars!” cried
Pertinax. We rocked in place. The galley of Seremides, too, paused. The waters seemed placid. The other galleys, too, farther to starboard, must have held their position, as the great ship behind us neither moved, nor was drawn to the side. “Oars inboard!” called Pertinax. We drew the large levers inward. This is sometimes done in battle, when shearing is imminent. It takes no more than four or five Ihn. The ropes leading back to the great ship, no longer taut, slipped into the water. The oars on the galley commanded by Seremides were similarly retracted. I wondered what horrors might be being enacted in the depths. Many blossoms floated on the surface, amongst the vines. The sea tharlarion, in its varieties, not other than its brethren of the land, breathes air. Like the sea sleen, on the other hand, it can remain submerged for several Ehn, whilst fishing. I stood by the bulwarks and looked down. I could see no shimmer of parsit near the surface. They had departed the area. The sunlight glistened on the water, amongst the streamers of cut vines, the floating blossoms. Four or five Ehn passed. By now I supposed the tharlarion, and its relentless pursuer, or pursuers, might be a pasang or more distant. Still I had seen no parsit beneath the water. “Out oars!” cried Seremides. “Wait!” called Pertinax. “Wait!” “Out oars!” cried Seremides, angrily, and, his rope falling amongst his oarsmen, the oars of his galley slid outward. We grasped our oars. “Hold!” said Pertinax. “Pull!” called Seremides, to starboard. “Wait!” Pertinax warned us. “Pull, pull!” said Seremides, and the ropes attached to his galley, leading back to the great ship, lifted, dripping, from the water. “Stop!” called Pertinax. “Move, fool!” called Seremides. “Move, slackard!” “Keep your distance!” cried Pertinax. Seremides’ galley began to move toward ours. “To port!” he called to us. “Out oars! Row! Move!” The galley of Seremides kept its original heading, dictated by its towing ropes, while we were still, towing ropes slack, now almost across his bow, rocking in the water. “Poles!” cried Pertinax, and men seized up the launching poles, used in thrusting a galley from a wharf, cushioning her approach to a wharf, holding her away from rocks, or such. It is customary that there be three such poles, as you of the port know, one for the bow, one amidships, one aft. “Back oars!” cried Seremides, alarmed. The two galleys grated against one another. I heard oars splinter. Our oaring was inboard. “Fool, fool!” screamed Seremides to Pertinax. Pertinax’s face went white and I saw his hand move to the hilt of his sword. But already the blade of Seremides was free of its sheath, and, his eyes alight with eagerness, he leaped aboard our galley. I rose at the bench and cried, though it might be insubordination, to Pertinax, “Do not unsheathe your blade!” He slammed the blade, half free, back in its sheath, looked at Seremides before him, unflinching, and said, “Welcome aboard, noble Rutilius.”
Seremides cried out with rage, looked about himself, saw that he might have to deal with twenty angry, violent men who would stand with their captain, and returned his weapon to its housing. “I see,” said he, “barbarian, that you are not only a fool and a slackard, but a coward, as well.”
“Barbarian I may be,” said Pertinax, “but I am neither fool nor slackard, and I trust, not a coward.”
“Tell your men to hold, to remain in place,” said Seremides, “and we will make test of the matter.”
Several others, as well as I, had risen from the benches.
“Hold!” said Pertinax.
“No!” cried more than one.
The hand of Pertinax went to his weapon.
Seremides grinned, stepped back, drew his blade, and set himself, easily, his body swaying a little, with the movement of the vessel. His galley scraped a little against ours. I saw no love for him across the rail.
I sensed a rising under my feet, something stirring, something approaching, from far below, water moving away from it. I do not think that either Seremides or Pertinax noted this.
“Defend yourself,” said Seremides. I had heard those words, sensed the eagerness in the voice before, more than a dozen times, in the early morning, in the dampness and cold, in a park, or in the Plaza of Tarns, long ago, in Ar. I sensed that the whole rationality of Seremides was now focused narrowly, exultantly, on the victim before him, that the ship, its discipline, Tarl Cabot, Lords Nishida and Okimoto, the apprehension of the former Lady Flavia of Ar, or even of the former Ubara, Talena, was as though they were not. I thought of the sleen whose hunt is done, who has the tabuk or verr cornered before him. What command could stay him, what consideration could distract him, what give pause to so single-minded and formidable a force of nature?
The blade of Pertinax was but half drawn when both galleys burst apart, leaping from one another, the gigantic body of the tharlarion rising between them, springing forty feet or more from the water, expelling a snorting burst of air, several of the eel-like sharks fastened in its flanks; it seemed oddly still for a moment, upright, at the height of its leap, and then fell back in the water, drenching us, half filling the galleys with water; I pulled rent vines from about me; blossoms were at my knees in the water. I felt a descent as of heated fog, and realized it was the air the creature had expelled, settling cloudlike about us. The thing had returned. How could that be? Surely it was a coincidence, that the great beast, lacerated, in its agony, running blood, had come back to this place. The long neck, yards in length, snakelike, lifted, and the small head swayed about, as though searching, with the single eye left. It had returned to the place where it had been first hurt. I could see the tails of sharks whipping against the water, trying to drive their jaws deeper into the beast’s flesh. Other fins were approaching, knifing through the blossoms. I heard a man scream on the galley of Seremides, and he poked upward with his spear. The small head on the great body, with its triangular jaws, with its rows of tiny, fine teeth, reached down, almost gracefully, and lifted the screaming fellow yards into the air. It then threw its gigantic, massive, glistening body, sharks clinging to it, over the gunwales of the galley of Seremides, pressing it under the waves, men leaping into the sea on either side. It then, dragging its burden of sharks, its victim still struggling in its jaws, dove, and the snap of that great tail, striking upward, tipped us, and then, striking downward, propelling that enormous bulk, clove our galley, and we were plunged into the water. The sea about us was red, and I spit out water. Within it was the taste of blood. I saw a fellow two yards away drawn beneath the water. “Ho!” I heard. “Ho!” The small ship’s boats had put about and were returning. The other galleys, too, loosing their towing ropes, would be soon at our side. I pulled myself half onto a nest of vines, half in the water, half not. A splintered oar floated past. “Here!” I heard. Men were being drawn into small boats. But they would be soon swamped. They clung to the gunwales of the ship’s boats, and armsmen and oarsmen struck down with tools and oars, to protect those in the water. I heard an oar count being called, over the water, and one of the towing galleys was near. I could see it in a bit then, with ship’s boats clustered about it, men being drawn aboard, from the boats, from the water. A dorsal fin moved smoothly by. I remained as still as possible. I was not bloodied. If one moves, one should move as smoothly as possible, not awkwardly, not hastily, not erratically, not as though one might be injured, or helpless.
Men swam toward the small boats, the nearest galley.
I saw more than one drawn beneath the surface. Fins were everywhere. I felt the mat of vines to which I clung turn, and begin to drift. The wreckage of the galley of Seremides seemed farther away now. I saw no sign of the galley of Pertinax. Soon, as I lay, I could no longer see the small boats, or any galleys. There is restlessness in the Vine Sea, as in any sea, and swells, and local currents, and the sea itself, tangled and beautiful, oppressive, and terrible, despite its vastness, moves from time to time, seasonably, predictably, even hundreds of pasangs, as might any object, large or small, afloat on Thassa, with her hundred moods and thousand currents.
I think most of my fellows had sought the small boats.
As noted, I could not now see them, as I was positi
oned, but I knew they were there. I could hear men in the distance. Were I able to stand I had little doubt I could see them, and certainly one or more galleys. Even as I lay still in my bed of vines and blossoms I could, turning my head, see the great ship, in the distance.
It was now quiet about me, save for the lapping of the water.
There seemed none about.
I was much alone.
I was not afraid of being left, or abandoned. I was afraid, rather, of what I knew was in the water.
“Ho, Callias!” I heard.
“Tal, Durbar!” I called.
I remembered him from the pumps, when, during the time of the great storms they had been manned twenty Ahn a day.
He was better situated than I, for he crouched on two nailed beams, which must have been from the hull of one of the two destroyed galleys.
He was some forty feet away.
There was other wreckage about.
Needless to say, I was much pleased to see him.
“You are in danger!” he called.
I considered swimming to join him.
A blossom floated by.
A fin glided past.
“Perhaps less here than there!” I said.
I was not eager to negotiate the water between us.
“As you will!” he said.
But I saw a swimmer clamber to his makeshift vessel. One end of the beams descended beneath the waves, under the weight of the newcomer. I did not think they would well bear the weight of two. Durbar turned about, cried once, and reeled from the beams, plunging into the water, his jacket red. Across the space between us I saw Seremides, his eyes on me. He did not have his sword, but there was a knife in his hand. He stood unsteadily on the narrow wreckage.
In the water Durbar, the water red about him, gasping, confused, extended his hand to Seremides, who did not accept his hand, perhaps fearing the loss of balance, but motioned him closer. When Durbar got his hands upon the beams Seremides kicked out, viciously, and Durbar, I think his neck was broken, slipped away, beneath the water.
Mariners of Gor Page 26
